To Fight for a Dream by Tanya Allan     An autobiography is an account of one’s life up to a certain point.   This isn’t my autobiography. It is, however, a fictitious biography of someone very like me, or me if one or two things had happened differently.   This is a WHAT IF scenario plus a lot of wishful thinking.

 
 
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Author's Note:
 
This is a work of fiction, but some of the events, some of the people and most of the feelings and emotions are real. Some of the events were events that I experienced, while others were researched, and others are simply made up.

ALL names have been changed to protect the innocent. In 2005, I first posted an early version of this as a blog on my Yahoo 360 site, but removed it when Yahoo became silly about what they considered indecent. I used a photograph that they believed was for adults only and restricted viewing. I have since rewritten and revised it into its current form.

I know what is real and what isn’t.

I leave it to you to guess and wonder what is real and what isn’t.

Actually, it doesn’t matter, as it should stand alone as a good yarn. Please note, I have maintained my record for happy endings, even though the real ending has yet to be written.

It is tough to fly in the face of convention and social mores. It is tough to break away and to declare that you want to be you, in spite of what the world decrees you should be.

In 2008, the world read of Captain Ian Hamilton of the Parachute Regiment. He turned my fiction into reality by undergoing transition and surgery to become Jan.

I dedicate it to all those who have the courage to go with their convictions; and to those who stand by them, no matter how hard it might be. May God bless you all.

Tanya
Originally written in 2005, revised in 2008.
 
 
The Legal Stuff:To Fight for a Dream  ©2005, 2008 Tanya Allan

This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.
 
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
 
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
 
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don’t read it.
 
 
Chapter 1. Coming Home
 
 
I was fine until the train reached the Forth Rail Bridge. It was a wonder of the Industrial Age, which I failed to fully appreciate as I was on the last leg of the first part of a very long and difficult journey.

As the train headed through Fife, passing familiar landmarks, the enormity of my journey hit me. I’d been dreading this particular episode for a very long time, even since I was old enough to realise that this day would eventually come. The last time I’d seen these familiar sights on this route, I’d been a young man of twenty-five, an officer in the Parachute Regiment, heading south with my leave being cut short. On the 2^nd April 1982, Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands, so I’d rejoined my regiment, shipped out to the Falklands and saw active service in a short but bloody conflict.

Since joining the army in 1976, I’d killed in armed conflict, been to several nasty places in the world and seen things I would have much rather not seen. The whole experience emphasised my own mortality and stirred my determination to attempt to finish my life as the person I should have been born as.

Now it was the March of 1986, I was twenty-nine and everything had changed. I was no longer a soldier and not even a man any more.

My story is a strange one, but sadly, not that unusual these days. I have to confess to having difficulties working out where to start. Do I start at the beginning, or just after coming round after surgery allowed me a rebirth as a girl?

If I start in the middle, you’ll perhaps allow me the luxury of thinking back and dipping into the past. Despite the fact that the ending has yet to happen, perhaps if you join me, the end will write itself as we follow my journey together. Some stories are best told with a flavour of what went before, so please excuse me if I jump back from time to time.

The train was three minutes late into Dundee, which, for British Rail was as close to being on time to make no difference. I was pleased the trip was over, as I’d been sitting in the same seat since Kings Cross in London. Okay, I’d been along to the loo a couple of times, but I don’t count them.

I stood, straightened my skirt and slipped on my jacket and coat. Catching my reflection in the glass, I felt a surge of contentment, as my outward form was now in line with what I believed I should always have been. My case was on the rack above my head, I wasn’t bothered about lifting it down, for, as a soldier, I’d been used to slogging across extreme and inhospitable terrains with seventy-pound packs, so one small case wasn’t an issue. The suited businessman ignored my plight, while, I noted, he enjoyed staring at my breasts. However, the retired gentleman in the tweed suit attempted to assist me, causing the former to come to his aid and lift my case down in his stead.

I smiled my thanks to both men, only to be rewarded by brief, embarrassed smiles in return. The British really are unique, as I’d been to so many places, including the USA, where total strangers have no reservations about striking up conversations. I’d been sitting close to both men since York, yet had hardly exchanged a word with them.

Admittedly, I had been as reserved as they, for as a male to female transsexual who had only completed my final surgery some twelve weeks ago, I was perhaps more self-conscious than most. However, I had been living as a female since the summer of 1984, and one thing I learned, single lone females of good character just do not start conversations with strange men.

For men are strange creatures. As much as they adore talking about themselves, they also like to find out all about the women they meet. I just didn’t want to start divulging too much about myself, and I couldn’t be bothered to make up some lies.

Slinging my shoulder bag over my left shoulder, I carried my case in my right hand down to the ticket collection point at the barrier. I passed my ticket to the Inspector and walked out into the late afternoon.

I knew Dundee well. As a young man I’d often come here to the cinema or to shop. I’d taken girls to the movies and even to restaurants on dates. My father still ran a commercial printing business here, as had his father, yet his hope for me to follow suit had never come to fruition. It never would now, as my father had refused to speak to me since the last occasion I’d been home. I’d called several times, but he had yet to address one word to me.

The most memorable was when I had just returned to my flat in London, having had my surgery at a clinic just outside Brighton. I was alone, but that wasn’t anything new, but was feeling lonely and quite emotional. I was at last the physical representation of my mental image of myself. At least, I was nearer than ever before. I had been a little overweight, as the mixture of hormones, lack of exercise and comfort eating had meant I was several pounds over my ideal weight.

As an average sized male, I had been just over ten stone, six pounds. As I was five foot eight, this was an average weight. However, as a slightly taller than average female, I was hoping to hit eight and a half to nine stone. Having just been discharged from the hospital, I was now eleven stone, so had a lot of work to get it down.

My small flat was above the antique shop in which I worked. It had two bedrooms and space for a car out the back. I decided to sell my car some months previously to help pay for my procedures. I also didn’t want to be stopped driving while dressed as a girl, as the police could require me to produce my licence, which was still in my male name. Living in London was such that a car was an unnecessary luxury. Public transport was quite sufficient for my needs.

I had entered the procedure knowing the costs involved, but by the time I appreciated the additional costs, in terms of finances and emotions, it was too late to back out. I was perhaps a little more fortunate than many, as I had inherited a tidy sum from my maternal grandfather, which was how I managed to purchase my own flat in London. However, as the job I’d managed to find came with accommodation above it, I had sold my flat and invested the money. In addition, I’d saved some money through five years in the army, and had been working all through my transition RLT (Real Life Test) period, which meant I had never dipped into the red at any time. Financial concerns would have simply added to the stresses that I had let myself in for. My mother’s contribution to my treatment was by secretly giving me a small allowance from her own inheritance, so I was at least solvent. God knows how so many others cope, when all they have goes to the doctors and drugs companies; there is still life to lead.

So, feeling tender but slightly euphoric after just becoming female, I had called my mother as an attempt to avoid eating the pack of chocolate biscuits that were calling out to me from the kitchen.

My father answered the phone.

“Hi Dad,” I said, cringing inside as he’d been far from helpful when I announced my intentions many months ago.

“It’s it!” he said to my mother, immediately handing the phone to her without saying anything to me. That hurt, as he couldn’t even use a gender specific pronoun for me.

“You can be bloody insensitive, you know?” she said to him as she took the phone. “Hello dear, how did it go?” she asked.

I still don’t know why, but I started to cry. My moods were somewhat unpredictable, which was down to these alien female hormones that replaced the testosterone I no longer produced naturally.

“F.. f.. fine,” I lied.

There followed a long and very emotional conversation that left me feeling slightly better. My mother would have come down to be with me had my father been more supportive. Unfortunately, his attitude to life and woman’s place was somewhat bigoted and outdated, yet she still abided by his rule of law.

Why am I going home? I hear you ask.

I have to.

I have to face my demons and seek closure. If my father fails to accept me, then he must do so to my face. I will have to accept it and move on. I owe it to my mother to at least try to seek acceptance, despite her belief that he will never do so.

He is a stubborn man, who dislikes being defied in any aspect of life that he believes he controls. The last time we’d had a bust up was when I had just left the army and flown home as the conquering hero. I had hardly been home ten minutes when he had broached the subject of my joining the family firm. I had intended to keep from announcing my real intentions for a few months, but his attitude forced my hand.

“No, Dad, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Why not? You won’t get a salary like this anywhere else, particularly working in some poofy antique shop.”

“The money doesn’t mean anything to me, I’ve other plans.”

“Other plans? Like what?”

“Just plans. I need to sort out my life.”

“Sort out your life? What sort of namby-pamby, pinko shit is that?”

“Look, you’ve your life and I have mine. Just let me live it without interfering, okay?”

“Interfering? I’ve never interfered in your life.”

“No? What do you call sending me to the same school as you went to so it would build character, then pushing me to the Parachute Regiment? I went along with it for an easy life. Well, Dad, it stops now. I’m not being pushed any more.”

“You never had to join the army if you didn’t want to.”

“Easy to say, I was eighteen with no real idea what I wanted to do. You pulled in favours with old friends and sent me on courses, insisting I went through RCB and so when I passed, you were so pleased, I could never turn down my place at Sandhurst. Besides, if I’d told you what I really wanted to do, you’d probably disown me.”

“Oh yes, and just what exactly would that be, a bloody pansy artist?” he asked, his voice already with that whine of disgust.

“It was the only thing I was good at and enjoyed.”

“You were good at rugger,” he said.

“Maybe, but I only played it because I had to. I persevered with it because you wanted me to.”

“Well, what is this mysterious thing you want to do?”

I stared at him for some time without speaking.

“Well, answer me, boy!”

I felt the anger rise inside me like a spreading cancer. The control I once had left me, and I uttered those words far sooner than I intended.

“See? You treat me like shit. I’m not a servant or employee that you can shout at.”

“I’m your father, so I’ll speak to you how I damn well like. You didn’t answer my question.”

I was really angry now, so I spoke before I thought. “I’m your son, your only son and, if you must know, it’s been my lifelong intention to become your daughter.”

He stared at me, blinking in a mixture of disbelief and horror.

“What?” he said, eventually.

My anger abated, replaced by a sense of relief and surprise that I’d finally said the unmentionable.

“You heard.”

“I heard, boy, but I don’t bloody well understand.”

“It may have escaped your notice, Dad, but I’m an adult now.”

He was silent and on reflection, his use of the word ‘boy’ was rather appropriate.

“Actually, I’m not a boy. I’ve known since I was about four that I should have been a girl. The Falklands showed me that I have to at least try to be true to myself and become the person I should always have been.”

“You’re a queer? But you were an army officer and went out with girls!” His voice rose to a shrill level in his anxiety.

“I’m not a queer, as you so eloquently put it. I’m a transsexual, who needs to make my body the same as my brain. I went out with girls because everyone expected it of me, not because I had any great desire to. Okay, so they were nice people and we got on very well, but to be honest their gender was largely irrelevant. If anything I got on well with them as I identified with them, not because I had any ambitions of a sexual nature.”

“So, it’s the same bloody thing. There are only two types of person, normal and queer! You like men, admit it!”

I felt my anger rising again.

“Dad, this pointless, as you are so bloody bigoted! It isn’t a matter of sexual preference; this is gender. This is who I should be, not who I am. Whether I like men or women doesn’t come into it.”

“It bloody well does! Who did this to you? Were you buggered at school?”

“No, Dad, no one did this to me. And, if you must know, I’ve only had sex five times, but I shan’t tell you whether with a men or women! I was born like it, but there was no way I could tell you before this because I knew how you’d react.”

“There are people, doctors who can cure this sort of thing!”

“Dad, you still don’t understand. I don’t want to be cured, not like that. There is only one answer; I simply want to be a girl!”

“You can’t, it’s not natural. Besides, what the hell would people say? I’ve a reputation to maintain in the community.”

“Oh, now we get to it. You don’t give a shit about me; you’re just worried what they’ll say at the Masonic Lodge, or at the golf club, the Chamber of Commerce or in Rotary. Oh, look, there’s poor Robert Allan, isn’t it awful how his selfish little perverted bastard of a son went and changed sex just to spite him.”

“Don’t be such a bloody little prig; you can’t speak to me like that!”

“Can’t I, why not? Where’s the caring father who wants what’s best for his child, instead of what’s best for him?”

“I always have done want what’s best for you, I can’t help it if you can’t see it.”

“And you can, I suppose?” I asked, sarcastically.

“Of course I can. When you have as much experience of life as I have, you’ll understand. I can see what’s best for you now.”

“As long as it helps you, but not if it doesn’t!”

“You’re not well. You must have got shell-shock in the Falklands!”

“That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? It won’t wash, Dad, as the army medics have already given me a clean bill of health. I just have to find the right doctor to start me on hormones soon. I believe that I have gender dysphoria, it’s a real condition that a psychiatrist will supervise me through every step of the way.”

“Which is?”

“In a few months, once the hormones start taking effect, I suppose I’ll start my real life test.”

“What’s that?”

“When I throw away everything that is James and start living as a girl all the time.”

He looked disgusted with me. His whole face was twisting into a mask of hate and revulsion. It was as if I had suddenly become something utterly revolting.

“You’re throwing away everything I’ve done for you, you know that?”

“No, I’m only throwing those things away that I no longer want.”

“But why?” he asked, his voice quite shrill.

“Because I have to. I’ve lived as something I’m not for so long that I can’t do it any longer.”

“That is your last word?”

“Maybe, if that’s what you want.”

“Then I have nothing more to say to you. Ever!”
 

*          *          *
 
He’d kept his word, for since then he hadn’t spoken to me.
 
*          *          *
 
With nothing for me in Scotland, I’d immediately left home and flew south to start my long and painful path. Now I was returning to challenge him to publicly accept me as his daughter, or deny my existence. I wasn’t putting money on the former.

I waited outside the station for a taxi, but not for long. A maroon Volvo 240 pulled onto the rank, the driver peered at me from his window.

“Where to, darlin’?” He had a broad local accent.

“West Gilmore House, near Invergowrie, please.” I was very conscious of my educated, Queen’s English accent, with a hint of Scots in there somewhere.

“Aye, I know it, hop in, then.”

I opened the rear door, slung in my case and then got in the front, next to him. I sat in silence as we negotiated the rush-hour traffic. My driver swore proficiently and fluently all the way. He kept apologising, but then swore again within a few hundred yards.

I glanced at my hands. My nails were perfect; the right length, shape and, for a change, the varnish was even and smooth. I was very pleased with my appearance. It had taken me all the time from that moment I’d come home from the clinic to now to get in shape again. It helped having a good reason to get into shape, and I smiled as I thought of him. Not long now!

I’d joined a gym, spending two hours every other day on the machines to help me become leaner and fitter. I now weighed nine stones, which was a little heavier than I originally wanted, but it would do. Actually, it was probably my ideal weight, as my muscle tone was firm, but lacking the bulk I’d attained as a man. I could still run as far, but not quite as fast. I flipped down the sunshade so I could look into the vanity mirror.

The face that looked back at me was very pleasing to me. It was that of a woman, as there was little sign of the gender of the previous occupant. I’d had some facial surgery to reduce my nose, jaw-line, forehead and Adam’s apple, while they’d tightened the skin around the eyes, losing my weathered look from squinting into the sun. I had always had a soft voice, so, with some coaching and tightening of my vocal chords, I had little difficulty in speaking in the higher and softer female range. They’d made my lips fuller, while just sharpening my cheekbones. With the weight loss, my figure was as feminine as had I been born female, assisted by two breast implants that gave me the 38C — 25 — 36 shape.

Mark Riley, my employer, stated that I looked better than most genetic women he knew, and that I had done even when still at the early stages of transition. Mark was a real treasure. He was an ex-naval officer and as gay as they come. He and his partner, Rod, owned and ran three antique shops in the West End of London. He’d given me a job just after I’d left the Parachute Regiment. We’d met at a dinner party of some mutual friends.

He was openly gay and was telling some hilarious stories of his problems in the Royal Navy. The Navy still officially outlawed homosexuality, but it was more common than the Admiralty would ever know. He’d been very discreet, but not quite discreet enough. If he hadn’t been involved with the son of a Portuguese diplomat, he’d have been dishonourably discharged, as it was they let him resign his commission with his honour intact.

I mentioned that I was looking for work and as he had just bought his third shop, he was anxious to find someone to manage it. I had an impeccable background, so he gave me the job on the spot. It was perfect, as a flat above the shop came with the package. I shared my intentions with him and Rod one evening in the pub. They were so supportive and assisted me to start living as Jane. Without them, I doubt I’d have managed to get through the most gruelling two years of my life. Military training has nothing on transition and sex change.

“Is this your first time in Scotland, love?” the cab driver asked, bringing me back to the present.

“No, I was born here. I left over ten years ago, though.”

“I thought you’re English.”

“Sorry, but I’m Scots, born and bred.”

“Did you go to school up here?”

“Yes, a private school near Perth.”

“Ah!” he said, as understanding hit home. I was from the moneyed classes, which explained the accent, or lack of it.

The house had a long drive, so I asked the driver to drop me at the gate. I paid him and walked up the drive, each step taking me closer to something I was dreading.

My father had built West Gilmore House in the early 1970s. Well, he hadn’t physically built it, a builder managed that, but he helped design it and paid for it. The Gilmore Estate had comprised of a large farmhouse and several cottages for the workers. As farming had become more mechanised, the farm workers were no longer required in such numbers.

The farmer had died and his three sons split the estate, maintaining the bulk of the farm, but selling off the small sections to the east and west. Dad had bought the western portion, comprising of a plot of land of around five acres and a cottage. He’d demolished the cottage and built this house, put in a tennis court, a paddock for my mother’s horses and joined the local gentry.

It was a big, modern house, built in a traditional style. However, with seven bedrooms it was far bigger than the three of us required, but it was just big enough for his egotistical ideas of how important he was. With my father, image was everything. His father had formed a successful printing business in Dundee between the wars, so after the second war, Dad had gone in with new ideas and brought it into the modern age. My grandfather died, but the business went from strength to strength, while my father became more and more self-important as he became wealthier. Strangely, he became meaner and more penny-pinching as more money came rolling in. But that’s another story.

I stood at the door that had been my home for my first eighteen years. I no longer considered it home, so I pushed the bell, feeling a stranger. It was awful, not feeling I could just walk into the house that had been my home for so long. I dearly wished to have a certain person with me, but this I had to do alone.

The sound of the dogs barking brought back painful memories.

“Oh shit, do I really want to do this?” I asked myself.

The door opened and my mother stood there. We stared at each other for a moment. Two black Labradors snuffled at the hem of my skirt. Old Max, Dad’s favourite, immediately shoved his muzzle into my crotch.

I smiled, pushing him away. The other, Aggie, just wagged her tail enthusiastically with an old slipper in her mouth. I had to make a fuss of her for a moment.

“Hi Ma, long time no see?”

“Oh, my goodness, you’re so pretty!” she said in surprise, starting to cry and embracing me at the same time. I was crying too, so we just hugged each other. Max attempted to return his nose to my crotch by raising the hem of my skirt with his damp nose.

Eventually, we moved into the house and into the kitchen.

“How was your trip?” she asked, switching on the kettle.

“Okay. Is Dad here?”

She smiled sadly. “No, he’s at the club.”

“Is he coming back?”

“Probably, but I’m not sure when.”

“Has it been bad?”

“Frankly, yes, bloody awful. He’s tried my patience so much. I’ve been married to the man for thirty five years, and yet I find that I hardly know him.”

“I’m so sorry to bring this on you. If there could have been another way, I’d have…..”

“No, dear, you did what you had to do. It doesn’t matter what you did, it would never have been good enough. But this, he just couldn’t take it. Pride is a terrible thing!”

She made two mugs of tea and sat next to me, taking one of my hands.

“I can’t believe you! Look at you; you look wonderful; I’d never guess you were once…”

“Ma, forget what I was, I’m Jane now, so forget James, please?”

Smiling, she ran my long hair through her fingers.

“Your hair is a lot thicker, is that the hormones?”

“I suppose so. It helps my complexion, thickens my hair and makes me a moody cow.”

She smiled, gently stroking my cheek. “I find it so odd to see you in make up and wearing earrings. I always wanted a girl, did you know that?”

“Yes, you said so many times, so?”

“Is it my fault?

I laughed, but with no humour. “No, Ma, this is not anything anyone did, I was just born in the wrong body.”

“Look, your father won’t come round. He’s just so proud. When you came back from the Falklands with those medals, suddenly you reached his level of expectations. He was forever telling anyone who’d listen what plans he had for you. To throw that back in his face was the worst insult in his book.”

“What about my plans? Don’t I have the right to live my own life?”

She was almost in tears by now, the pent up frustration of many years coming to the surface. I felt guilty for adding to her distress.

“Of course you do, but your father will never see it that way. He never even allowed me to live my life. I’ve always been under his shadow, as life with him is his way or not at all.”

“Why have you stayed with him?”

“Where else would I go? Besides, I took a vow.”

“Maybe, but he’s abused you since you first got married.”

“He’s never hit me,” she protested.

“There’s more to abuse than hitting someone.”

She looked very sad. “Actually, depending on how your visit goes, I’m seriously thinking of leaving.”

“Oh God, I should never have come. This was a mistake.”

She shook her head.

“No, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for, but enough of that just now. Will you come with me to a lunch party tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, why?”

“Eileen Roberts is having a charity lunch, so everyone who’s anyone will be there.”

“Eileen Roberts, as in Lady Roberts of Drumfettle?”

My mother smiled. “You remember her?”

“Of course, I went out with her daughter, Charlotte, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, and she’ll be there, probably.”

“Shit, this is a bit soon. Why?”

“Because it will give your father the biggest shock possible. If they accept you, then he’ll be so embarrassed, he may have to follow suit.”

“And if they don’t, he’ll feel vindicated, won’t he?”

“Jane, my goodness, it sounds so strange calling you that, I’ve told everyone I know what you’ve done, despite your father’s disgust. They all want to meet you.”

“So, to look at the freak, eh?”

“No, these people have known you since you were a small child.”

“Yeah, a boy child. I’m a woman now, remember?”

She looked at me, her stare resting on my cleavage and then down to my pelvic region.

“Stand up, dear, let me look at you.”

I stood, taking off my jacket. I had a cream short-sleeved blouse on, so my new shape was emphasised. She looked me up and down, her eyes noting my almost perfect shape.

“Have they, you know, taken everything away?” she asked.

“Yes, and I am fully functioning as a woman now. Or at least, I would be if I had someone to play with.”

“Jane! That’s disgusting!”

“Sorry.”

Smiling, she nodded towards my chest.

“Is that all you, or have you had help?”

“Most of it is me, but I’ve two small implants. If the hormones make me grow any more, I may have them removed.”

“You have very prominent nipples, are they real?”

“Of course.”

“They seem to have done a very thorough job. Can you have periods?”

“Not that good a job, Ma, I’ll never have babies.”

“Perhaps that’s just as well.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. This is all so strange. I never imagined you’d look so, so, so like a woman.”

“I am a woman, Ma.”

“Yes dear, but you weren’t a few months ago, were you?”

“I’ve always been a woman, only my body told lies from the moment I was born.”

“Was it very hard for you, at school and in the army?”

“Surprisingly no, it wasn’t that difficult, or not all the time, certainly. Oh, there were moments, but I got very good at pretending. Life went on, so I just got on with it. It wasn’t as if I had a choice.”

“When did you first think you were different?”

“Do you remember that first Christmas play at Grange House?”(Grange House was my first school. I boarded there from seven to thirteen.)

“Yes, the one where you played the girl.”

“Well, that confirmed what I first discovered when I was about five. I just felt different, but the moment I dressed and looked like a girl for the first time, well, I just felt that I had arrived, so to speak.”

“You used to dress in my clothes, didn’t you?”

I was surprised. “Yes, how did you know?”

“Little things, like underwear not quite in the right place and smudges of makeup on bra straps. When did you start?”

“I was eleven. You were both out for the day, so I tried your underwear. By the time I was sixteen, I had progressed to complete outfits, being very good at make up and everything.”

“Did you ever go out?”

“No, too chicken. Oh, I tell a lie, for I walked down the road once. It was at night, you two were out at some Rotary function, so I went for a walk in your raincoat and boots over that funny mini-dress you bought but never wore.”

“I remember that dress; it was a terrible purple floral thing. Heaven knows why I ever bought it. I suppose I thought it was trendy at the time.”

“Well, I was wearing that when I went for my little walk. I remember the amazing feeling of freedom I experienced, as well as the exhilaration. I was terrified of being seen by someone I knew, but there was also the strange hope that I would be discovered, which would mean I didn’t have to hide it any more.”

“That was a terrible risk. Did anything happen?”

“No. I got tooted at by a lorry driver, but apart from that, nothing.”

“You always had very short hair, how did you manage to hide it?”

“I bought a long blonde wig at a charity shop. I bought all my clothes there, even bras and underwear. Once I was sixteen, I rarely wore your clothes, as I was bigger than you by then.”

“Did you do it at school?”

“What, dress up?”

“Yes.”

“No, not really. It wasn’t the dressing or the clothes. It was the ‘being’ a girl that excited me.”

“How often did you dress as a girl?”

“Any opportunity I could. Certainly, every time you and Dad went out. I remember once, you went to a wedding in Devon. You were gone for the entire weekend, from the Friday to Sunday evening. I spent the entire time as a girl, it was wonderful!”

“I remember, that’s the time I came back to find you’d cleaned the house.”

“Well, I got a real kick out of doing girl stuff. I was in heaven for two days and nights. I slept in a slinky nightdress and was so content. I almost went out shopping dressed, but was afraid that I’d meet someone who knew me. My one frustration was that I couldn’t be a real girl.”

“I often wondered why you always volunteered for the girl’s parts in the plays. Now I know.”

“Sorry. I should have told you earlier. I was so terrified of Dad, I just couldn’t tell anyone.”

“I can understand that, as I don’t think it would have done any good. In a way, suspecting but never knowing was better than having to come to terms with the reality. What would it have changed?”

“I’d have shared my burden with you. Perhaps we could have helped Dad come to an understanding.”

“Dear, a herd of wild elephants wouldn’t help your father understand what he doesn’t want to understand. If he refuses to accept something, then hell will freeze over before he’ll back down. He can’t really accept that anyone could possibly vote labour, let alone something as drastic as this.”

“Then perhaps I should have done this earlier, before going to the army and before he got his hopes up for me.”

“I don’t think you were strong enough then. The army made you strong, regardless of what you say, as it mentally prepared you for the trials you’ve been through. I’m just so sorry I was so little help.”

“You were at the end of the phone and gave me material help when I needed it. I understand why you couldn’t get away.”

“Do you hate him for it?”

“Dad? I’m not sure it’s hate, but I suppose I do. We were never close, particularly latterly, Ma, you know that?”

“I know. It caused me terrible heartache, but I never really understood why.”

“I didn’t always. He was great until I was old enough to have opinions and ideas of my own. I suppose I must have been about thirteen when we fell out that first time.”

“You were. You were a prefect at Grange House and looked very grown-up. He wanted you to go to that rugger camp before going on to public school, but you wanted to go to that art thing.”

“I won,” I reminded her.

“At great cost. He never was the same after that. He never liked being defied.”

“He still calls me ‘it’ then?”

“Yes, I’m afraid he does.”

“I didn’t think he’d change.”

“So, why did you come?”

“I’m not sure. I think I need to face him and have him reject or accept me to my face. I’ll have done everything I could, and will be able to move on. If he changes his mind, then he will know where to reach me.”

“Then be brave for a little while longer. Come to the lunch, you’re so pretty and natural, no one will be nasty to you.”

“If I was ugly, what then?”

“These are my friends, so they aren’t the same as your father. Strange as it may seem, most people don’t actually believe that the sun shines out of Robert Allan’s arse.”

“They’ll still see me as a freak.”

“No dear, they’ll see you for who you are.”

My emotions were in turmoil. I’d been so alone throughout everything so far, that I no longer knew how to actually face people, particularly people who had known me as James. I felt an urge to cry again, which took all my control to prevent. My changed hormones had made me more susceptible to mood swings and sudden bursts of weeping. Often, through transition, I could hardly get out of bed, which didn’t help my weight problem.

“What will I wear?” I asked, which made her laugh.

“Now I know you’re a girl,” she said, hugging me.

I took my case up to my room. It hadn’t changed, as my old red beret from the Paras was on the wall, together with some ‘souvenirs’ from the Falklands and Northern Ireland. I looked at the photograph that had been taken of me with the others on the same parachuting course. I’d just gained my wings and was looking mean, moody and tough on the front row, with my single pip denoting my rank as a second lieutenant in the Parachute Regiment. I remember the moment as if it were yesterday, as the girl within was crying for release even then.

There was another photograph of my company in the Falklands. It had been taken a few days after Colonel Jones had been killed. I glanced at my reflection and compared my features with the young Captain looking grimly determined and macho. The surgeons really had done a wonderful job eliminating those subtle clues to masculinity. I was no longer James Allan, instead, I resembled a close relative to that young soldier - perhaps his sister or a cousin. Having only been properly Jane for a few months, I was still slightly nervous of venturing out in public, particularly anywhere where I might just meet someone who knew me ‘before’. I’d been living as a girl for many months, well over a year, but somehow things were different now I was through the procedure. It was also easier in London, where I wasn’t known, and where the variety of human conditions rendered it much easier to blend into the background. It was very different up here.

I’d got brave during my transition period, but only in those few areas I was courageous enough to venture. I’d made good friends who had encouraged me, but I had also had down moments, like when an Immigration officer accused me of travelling on a forged or stolen passport. Being legally a male while looking female was not for the faint hearted, but I never lost my determination to see it through.

I noticed my parents’ wedding photograph. I stared at my mother, for there was more than a passing resemblance between us. Now with my smaller nose and rounder chin, I looked very like her. I always thought she had been beautiful, which gave me goose bumps as I realised that I was so similar to her.

My room was as I had left it, with all the drawers and wardrobe still containing my male attire. I spent twenty minutes placing all that belonged to ‘James’ into a box and some black plastic bags, which I placed in the attic.

I didn’t unpack, just in case.

On returning downstairs, I found my mother making supper, so, putting on an apron, I helped her for a while. We chatted about London and my job, so I told her about my friends.

“Have you anyone special?” she asked, gently probing, perhaps afraid of what she would discover.

I smiled, hesitating slightly. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I met someone. In fact, I’ve met two people who seem to find me attractive.”

I watched as she struggled with the next question. I helped her out.

“Both men.”

“Oh,” she said, looking awkward.

“Ma, I’ve been confused over much of my life, but as I have slowly become the person I’ve always wanted to be, I’ve realised that I’m not a lesbian. I’ve had the privilege of being both sides of the fence, and have been to bed with girls. I just don’t see them that way anymore. I’m not sure I ever did, but had to try to see if I could cure myself and to meet other’s expectations of me, okay?”

“Did you ever fantasise?”

“You mean sexually?”

“I suppose I do, this is rather embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“In a way, but that’s because we never talked about it before. Yes, I had fantasies, everyone does. Only in mine, I was always a normal girl and the objects of my desires were always male.”

She smiled at this, but then laughed nervously as she thought about her next question. “You can never marry a man, can you?”

“Not in Britain, at least not yet anyway. I expect that eventually one will be able to. If I want to, I could always go to a country that allows it. To be honest, I’m not that bothered about it. If he wants me, I’d be happy just living with him. Marriage is for children, and as I can’t have any, there’s no point.”

“You know you said you have everything, does that mean you can, um, you know?”

“Fuck? Yes, of course. But I have yet to have that pleasure.”

She reddened at my coarse language.

“Sorry, you might be able to take the girl out of the army, but never the Para out of the girl.”

She laughed again. “That’s revolting, Jane!”

“No, it’s your dirty mind, Ma.”

Her face took on that expression that meant she was struggling with an awkward question.

“If it helps, I never had sex with a man before I had the surgery.”

She looked relieved and slightly embarrassed.

“I was never a homosexual male, just a girl trapped in a boy’s body. Now that girl is free, I don’t have to pretend any more.”

“Will I ever meet him?”

I smiled. “Which one?”

“Oh.”

“I hope so. I think you’ll like them, ma.”

“Oh.”

“Strangely, I met one when I was at school.”

“Where?”

“At school. I was about fifteen. He’s a couple of years older. He was on exchange from Germany.”

“German! Oh God, your father will have a fit!”

“It’s what first attracted me to him,” I said, sarcastically. It made her smile.

“Is it my imagination, or have we become closer?” she asked, looking at me quizzically.

“Perhaps. I think I’m more relaxed now that I’m what I want to be. It’s taken me a long time to get to this place. You might have hit the nail on the head. I’m not afraid of him any more. You and I have more in common now, so it’s very probable.”

“I can’t get over how feminine you are. I remember when you had finished Sandhurst and were off to Ireland on that first tour, you looked a very tough young man.”

“Ma, I was a tough young man, on the outside at any rate. So they’ve done a lot of work to make me look this good. I was fortunate being slim and small, but they still did a lot to my face.”

“You seem more slender, have you lost a lot of weight?”

“Thanks for noticing, yes, nearly two stone in a few months. I’m broad for a woman, so that’s why I had the implants. My surgeon told me I ought to look proportionate, so that’s why I have a fair sized bust.”

“But your hips are much bigger, how did they do that?”

“They’re not that much bigger, a little, yes, but that’s the hormones, they cause fatty deposits to adhere to that region. They also look bigger because my waist is narrower. It’s all relative.”

“You still look like you, just a woman.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Ma.”

The phone rang, so my mother went to the hall and answered it. The conversation wasn’t a long one, but I could hear my mother’s voice as she became upset. She was slightly flushed when she returned.

“That was your father; he’s staying at the club for dinner. He doesn’t know what time he’ll be back.” The club was the Red Hackle Club, the Black Watch club in Dundee. Dad had been in the Black Watch during the Second World War.

“Did he ask if I had arrived?”

“No.”

“He’s afraid of me, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Jane dear, I actually think he is. He just can’t cope, so he’s in a state of complete denial.”

I stared out of the window at the familiar sight of the Firth of Tay and the Hills of Fife on the other side. It was a lovely spot, but changing. I could see Dundee would encroach this far in ten or twenty years. I was glad this wasn’t my home any more.

“You’re right, Ma, I am much stronger now. I used to be afraid of him, but now it’s the other way around. If he won’t accept me, then that’s his loss.”

The dogs started to bark, indicating that someone had arrived. Shortly afterwards, we heard a voice shouting, “Cooeee?” from the hall.

“Oh shit, that’s Aunt Mary!” I said.

My mother looked at me, raising an eyebrow, but loudly saying, “In here, Mary. In the kitchen.”

Mary was my father’s sister, and a thoroughly different sort of person. I had adored her when I was a child, and even now had a real soft spot for her. As to how she’d react to my change in circumstance, I was about to find out.

Mary entered the kitchen already talking. She could talk for the United Kingdom, but probably not listen, as she rarely listened to what anyone said.

“I saw the most delightful suit in the sale in Draffens, but couldn’t decide whether to get the cream one or navy blue. The cream one was much the nicer but would show every spot and speck of dirt.” She paused, looking at me and then glancing at Ma. Then, with her eyes widening, she looked back at me, reaching out for the back of a chair to help support her.

“Oh dear lord!” she said.

“Tea or coffee, Mary?” Ma asked.

“What? Oh, a gin, I think! My God, is it really you?” she asked.

“Hello Aunt Mary,” I said, feeling awkward.

“Oh, dear God, you’re absolutely stunning, child! What the hell do I call you?”

“Jane,” my mother and I said at the same time.

She beamed the most enormous smile at me and, before I knew what was happening, enveloped me in a hug.

“Jane, hmm, sits you. You look so like your mother when she first met Robert. She was very pretty back then, too,” she said, causing my mother to chuckle.

“Has Robert seen her yet, Catherine?” she asked my mother.

“No, and he’s not coming home for a while.”

“He’s such a silly sod. Well, get me a drink, child, and then tell me all about it, you look wonderful!”

I gave her a strong gin and tonic, so then we sat around as I went through my ordeal. She was only too happy to be invited to stay for supper, as since her husband died, she’d been alone and was notorious at ‘dropping in’ on the off chance of obtaining a meal with some hapless friend or relative.

She was well aware of how difficult my father could be, but as the elder sibling, she seemed better equipped to deal with him. I think she had developed a thick skin and ignored his tantrums and moods.

“So, have you a boyfriend, yet?” she asked.

Smiling, I nodded.

“Well, I can see why it didn’t take you long, looking like that!”

“You don’t seem surprised, Mary,” Ma said.

“I’m not. I always felt Jane should have been a girl, but what could one say? Robert had such plans, it wouldn’t matter what happened; he’d always sulk if he didn’t get his way.”

I suddenly felt welcomed, for Mary was so laid back and accepting. For the first time, I felt almost happy I’d come.

She turned to me with a knowing smile. “So, young lady, tell me about what really happened in that school of yours, with all those gorgeous boys!”

I smiled, real life is often more fun than fantasy, but for me it was a mixture of short peaks of excitement with long periods of depression.
 
 
Chapter 2. Early Years
 
 
“Allan?”

“Sir.”

“Andrews?”

“Sir.”

The advantage of having a name starting with A was that I was near the top of every list. There were drawbacks, but in the main, it was an advantage.

I was thirteen, it was September 1970 and I was a new boy at a prominent Scottish Public School in Perthshire, which I shall simply call, ‘the College’. I was amongst about thirty-five other new boys, or ‘plebs’ as we were called. Six of us were placed in each of the six houses, of which I was placed in the furthest from the main college buildings.

Scott House was about a mile from the centre, so we were permitted bicycles, normally a privilege only for those in the fifth and sixth forms. I was shown my dormitory, which I shared with two others, the other three in the one next door. Having boarded since I was seven years old, I was used to the system, although I had never been in such a small dorm before.

Andrew Russell and William Montgomery were my fellow dorm members, so we set about getting to know each other. Actually, Andy and I had been at Grange House together, so we were already acquaintances. We’d both been in the first XV in our last year at Grange, and didn’t hate each other.

Andy was a big lad, who would go on to reach more than six foot, whereas I was almost at my full height. We had little in common, but that we did have made us closer in the face of such new surroundings.

William was English, from Guildford in Surrey. His father knew someone who’d been here, so he wanted the same opportunity for his son. Unfortunately for William, his southern English accent was such that it often invoked large amounts of teasing. Boys are very simple, for if something is different, then one just has to take the piss!

My inner turmoil was with me every waking moment of every day. I could momentarily put it to the back of my mind in certain subjects and activities, but it never went away completely. When I was in James mode, then I was a normal heterosexual male. However, when alone in my thoughts, Jane took over, so boys became an object of speculation and even desire.

To say I was confused was an understatement, but I managed to control things beautifully. With no access to female attire, or even the opportunity to become Jane for even a moment, James ruled supreme.

I was an adequate student, my inner battles taking the impact from any possible high achievement as a student in all subjects except art.

In art, I was able to express my inner self. I was free to explore the boundaries beyond my physical form, so released a gift that I had never known existed.

So too, as I developed my knowledge of English, I found literature another realm of excitement and exploration. The main drawback was my inner problem, as I had to maintain what was expected as opposed to what wanted to be released. This was a constant cause of frustration for me.

I made friends, none too close, but made no enemies. I developed the skill of sliding through life without really being noticed. I spent most lessons in another, dream-like world where I simply took a pill and become a beautiful girl who was subject of the desires of many handsome boys.

I was a swift scrum-half in rugby, so acquired a reputation of being the best in my year. This was a passport to the Junior XV, the Junior Colts, the Colts and finally, in 1974, the First XV. I never fully enjoyed the game, I just happened to be good at it. I did enjoy the comradeship and community spirit that belonging to a team brought. Strangely, I never found loads of naked sweaty male bodies as attractive as Aunt Mary would have liked. In fact, as James, I never was tempted to stray for my heterosexual persona, as Jane would only come to the fore in my fantasies and if ever I was dressed as a girl.

I was fifteen when the boundaries between James and Jane became briefly blurred. It was September 1972, so it was the beginning of the school year. I was in my seat in chapel, as usual, for the morning fifteen minute God-slot. I watched as the older sixth-formers entered. With them was someone new, a tall boy, very fair and dressed in different clothes.

Although no real uniform existed, we all wore tweed jackets, grey or white shirts with school or house ties and grey flannel trousers. This boy was in blue denim and had longer hair than was permitted at the College. He looked foreign, which was reasonable, as I later discovered that he was an exchange student from Germany.

There were three of them, but only one of them caught Jane’s eye. I shook my head; amazed that Jane had managed to exert so much inner strength for a change.

I was two years younger than the Germans, so had no contact with them in either class or leisure time. This one, however, I discovered was called Martin. I didn’t know his surname at this stage, which I would probably never be able to pronounce in any case.

He had exchanged with a boy from my house called Richard McNicholls, so they put him in Richard’s study for the term. I’d see him around the house, but we never exchanged any words or had contact. I was intrigued, for I had by now exerted sufficient control to suppress Jane’s unusual interest, and was back firmly as James.

As the rugby season had started, I was the Colts XV scrum half. On the third Saturday of the term, we were playing Fettes College at home. Fettes was always a close match. I know now that Tony Blair, the Prime Minister, attended Fettes at the same time as I was at the College, however, I never came into contact with him. Had I known and played ruby against him, I might have tried to kick his unmentionables, just so I could say that I had!

It was half way through the first half when Martin wandered across to the pitch and watched for a while. I managed to play quite well, so while I was concentrating on the game, Jane attempted to flirt with him.

How she thought she could, I have no idea, but I found myself looking at him too often, so became embarrassed and worried that I was losing control.

We won the match and, as I made my way back to the house after the final whistle, Martin walked up to me and accompanied me.

“You play good, yes?”

“Thanks, but that should be, ‘you played well.’ If you don’t mind me helping.”

“Thank you, mine English is not good now. I here to make better, yes?”

“Okay.”

“I hav seen you, you are James, yes?”

“Yes, and you’re Martin.”

He held out his hand in a rather silly formal gesture, so I flushed and shook it.

“I yam plized to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Was is ‘likewise?”

“Likewise means; I feel the same way.”

He laughed as if I’d told a joke. I felt faintly awkward, so I looked around to see if we were being observed. We weren’t.

We chatted about silly words and the English language as we walked.

“You learn German, no?”

“No, I’m doing Spanish and French for O level.”

“Why not German?”

I shrugged. “No reason, I just didn’t choose to. Next year, in the sixth form, I’m looking at dropping all languages anyway.”

“Languages is good.”

“That’s languages are good.”

He laughed again; he was being too nice to me. After all, I was two years younger than he was. He made me feel uncomfortable, but I wasn’t sure why.

Once back at the house, I went for a shower and he disappeared upstairs to the sixth form studies. I didn’t see him again for several days, but when I did, he smiled and nodded at me, but made no attempt to deepen any relationship.

Life went on. Our year group were producing an Agatha Christie play to put on at Christmas. In 1939 it was originally entitled Ten Little Nigger Boys, but had been changed to Ten Little Indians in a daft attempt to please the politically correct.

It was a rather silly play about ten people on an island who all get bumped off in line with a rhyme. I saw an opportunity, so went for it.

I volunteered for the part of Vera Claythorne, a young teacher at a girl's school. There were only two female characters, Vera and Miss Emily Brent, who was an old spinster. My part was of an attractive young woman.

There was no real love interest, but it was a fun play. All our English lessons were to prepare us for O level, but we spent several evenings each week rehearsing. My costumes had selected from the theatre wardrobe. Mrs Groves was our English master’s wife, so she was responsible for fitting us. For ease of fashions, the play was brought forward to the 1970, so the clothes reflected contemporary fashion and taste.

I was given three different outfits, none of which fitted very well. There were no girl’s shoes in my size.

“Mrs Groves, would it be a good idea to see what they’ve got in the charity shops in Perth?”

“Why?”

“Well, there seems to be a shortage of decent stuff, and I could get something that fits.”

“I haven’t got time to do the alterations on all these costumes and go shopping for you!” she replied.

“You don’t have to, I could do it.”

The school bus went into Perth on two days a week, so those members of staff without cars could go shopping or attend the dentist and such things. Boys could go if given written permission and we didn’t abuse the privilege.

“We don’t have very much in the budget. I can’t give you any more than ten pounds.”

I grinned, for that would be more than enough.

“Very well, I’ll sign a chit.”

I was on the bus the following Thursday. I was excited and nervous. I knew the strange glances that I normally received when buying girl’s clothes. I knew that they knew what I was up to, but I had little choice.

There were three charity shops that I had used in the past. I found three decent outfits, one a skirt and jacket with a blouse, another dress that was quite short, and finally an evening dress in black. I bought some underwear, a slip, petticoat, bras and panties as well. There were two pairs of size seven shoes, both in black, one of which had very high heels. The whole lot came to nine pounds eighty pence.

Despite explaining to the shop volunteers that I was looking for costumes for a play, I was convinced that I fooled none of them for a moment. I used the small changing booths to try them on, experiencing a strange level of excitement as I regarded myself changing into Jane. I suddenly felt a desperate urge to complete the change, with makeup and everything, but sense prevailed and I became James again.

Using a little of my own money, I bought some makeup and a pretty pair of cheap clip-on earrings.

I returned to the college clutching my wares, desperate to try them on, but knowing that I would have to be patient.

Fate was on my side, as Mrs Groves wasn’t in so I returned to my house with the clothes. I was unable to concentrate on my work that evening, knowing that three carrier bags of girl’s clothes were sitting under my bed.

We had cubicles for sleeping — each containing a bed, a chair, a small bedside table and a wardrobe with a couple of drawers. There were twelve cubicles in blocks, with a washroom at the end of each. Non-sixth formers had common rooms for daytime, so I was in the senior common room. The sixth formers had day studies and they had their own cubicle dorms on the floor below us.

I lay awake for ages, knowing those clothes were so close, yet terrified of weakening. I experienced this so often in my short life, and nothing could describe the relief I felt as Jane in full glory, coupled with the frustration in knowing it was cosmetic and very temporary!

In the end, she won. Judging everyone to be asleep, I slipped out of bed and took off my pyjamas. As soon as I slipped the bra and panties on I immediately became erect. Once I had filled the bra cups with socks and slithered into the slip, I had to reach for the tissues. The relief from the sexual explosion was tangible. Once free of the erection and sexual urge, I was able to relax and tuck the unmentionables away.

Pulling on the short dress and sliding my feet into the shoes with high heels, I felt wonderful. I was tempted to put on the makeup, but knew that I had no light to even attempt it.

Jane made me do something very stupid.

Believing that no one would go to the games changing room at one o’clock in the morning, I took off the shoes, put on my dressing gown and crept downstairs.

It was deathly silent and eerie, but I was alone. Using the mirror, I applied the makeup and clipped on the earrings. I replaced my feet in the shoes and walked around, exhilarating in the wonderful sense of freedom. Moments like these kept me going, but they were far too short. How I so wanted these moments to be every moment of every day. I wanted to be a girl so much, it hurt!

However, just as I was feeling so good, I sensed, with a growing sense of dread, that I was being watched.

I spun round and saw the German boy, Martin, regarding me from the open doorway, with an expression of amused confusion on his face.

“Shit!” I said, diving into one of the lavatory cubicles.

I heard his footsteps approach and then he knocked on the door.

“James, it’s alright, I not say anything.”

I opened the door, with tears of embarrassment in my eyes and my heart thumping.

We regarded each other, while I was still on the verge of tears.

“You make a pretty girl, yes?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, a strange excitement mingling with my fear and embarrassment.

“I not sleep, so I was outside watching the sky. I like stars, don’t you?”

I shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Then I saw you, and I was wondering what you doing. Now I know.”

“I’ve never done this before. I’m a girl in a play, so I had to get some clothes to fit.”

He looked at me, simply smiling and saying nothing.

“You like being a girl, yes?”

I looked at him sharply, trying to see if he was mocking me. I couldn’t tell from his words, but his expression was too gentle and non-threatening. My reserve broke and the tears started.

I couldn’t say anything, so I nodded.

“I not say anything. You too pretty to be a boy. You let me kiss you, then I say nothing?”

I stared at him, completely shocked. Numbly, I must have nodded, for he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. I didn’t respond, I was too shocked to move.

“Go get changed, I go back to bed,” he said, turning and walking out without a backward glance, leaving me feeling about as low as I could get, but with the strongest erection I’d ever experienced. I think I fell in love for the first time, that night. But I changed back into James as quickly as I could.

Over the next few days, I kept expecting someone to come up to me and tell me that he knew all about me, but no one did. Martin smiled at me whenever he saw me, but never came over to me or said anything. My heart went flippity-flop every time he looked at me, but I managed to bury my feelings very deep.

Life went on. I gradually relaxed and believed that the event was dead. As Christmas approached, the performance of the play became imminent. The rehearsals were now three times a week and the first dress rehearsal was planned.

Jane was delighted, for at last she was given a short spell of freedom. She took me over completely, as I lost myself in the euphoria of makeup and dressing how I wanted to dress all the time. The long blonde wig supplied by the school was not brilliant, but I managed to make it look reasonable.

My mistake was to do my own makeup for the dress rehearsal, for when Mrs Groves came over to me she was staggered to find me ready.

“My goodness, who did this for you?”

“No one. I watched you.”

One of her eyebrows shot up and she smiled a knowing smile.

“Oh yes, pull the other one. I think you’re enjoying this rather too much. Still, to each their own. You look very convincing, but then you know that, don’t you?”

I couldn’t speak, but I felt my face flush a rosy red colour.

“Hmm, thought so. Still, you be very careful, there are too many people here who wouldn’t understand,” she said, opening the makeup case.

“You’ve done fine for everyday wear, but you’re going on stage. You need to overdo the makeup, to make every change in expression obvious to the audience. So the eyebrows are accentuated and your lips are fuller and redder. There is an art to it, so watch in the mirror if you want to learn.”

She gave me my first lesson in stage makeup and, while she did that, she taught me about normal makeup. She told me about skin tone, foundation, different shades and colours for hair and complexions. It was a whole new and wonderful world.

She sensed my excitement, pausing as she worked.

“Your pulse is racing, are you okay?”

Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nodded.

“Do you need the loo?”

“No,” I said, frowning.

“To relieve yourself, you know,” she said, looking towards my crotch.

“I’m fine. It’s not like that.”

“No?”

“It’s not the clothes, it’s the being!”

“Oh dear. You poor soul. Does anyone know?”

I immediately thought of Martin, but shook my head, feeling the tears well up behind my eyes.

“Don’t you dare cry, young lady, not after all my hard work!” she said, making me laugh. I adored being called ‘young lady’ - it was like a dream.

She continued to apply my makeup.

“You know you can’t do anything about it, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“This must be so hard for you. If ever you need to talk about it, come and see me, okay?”

I nodded again.

“Otherwise, life must go on. Okay, you’re done. You look very beautiful, so be careful, those hunky sixth formers will try to seduce you,” she said, joking.

The thought instantly affected me, so I raced to the loo to ‘relieve’ myself.

Jane was superb, relishing every moment in skirts. It was one of those high peaks, which drew some attention from those around me. I attempted to convince them I was only acting, but in truth, the acting was reserved for every day as James. Like it or not, and in spite of my male body, Jane was the natural me, not James.

The dress rehearsal half over, Mr Groves announced we were running late so we should dash off to supper in costume to return to finish the rehearsal.

I felt excitement and terror course through my being. To be allowed out to show everyone what I was, it was an amazing, yet terrifying thought.

We went en-block to the dining hall and I couldn’t help but be aware of the many glances I attracted. I wondered how many believed I was a real girl. But no one approached us, so we collected our food and sat at an end table, out of the way.

I was unfamiliar with this dining room, as we normally ate in our house. The woman dishing up food called me ‘dear’, and I thought she believed I was a girl.

The rest of the cast behaved as if nothing was different, yet I was aware of my racing heart and permanent state of excitement. It was only partially sexual, as it was more a sense of freedom and completeness.

I was just finishing when a shadow fell across the table. I looked up, it was Martin.

“I thought I saw you. Are you good?”

My already stressed heart underwent a double flip-flop as I blushed from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.

Needless to say, the teasing started, and so I was bombarded with - “Jamie’s got a boyfriend” for the rest of the evening.

We finished the rehearsal and I reluctantly returned to being James. Mrs Groves heard the taunts, but said nothing until she got me alone as I was leaving.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Sure?”

I nodded again. We both knew I was lying, but there was nothing either of us could do about it. It helped knowing she was a friend.

I started the long walk back up to my house when I became aware someone was walking up behind me. I turned; it was Martin again.

I stopped and waited for him.

“James, I am sorry, that was bad of me.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“You make a good woman, yes?”

I laughed very sadly, yet I felt he understood why.

“Have you ever kissed a boy before?” he asked, making me remember that first, stolen kiss.

I was surprised, but not shocked. I suppose part of me was hoping for something like this. However, I wasn’t prepared to do anything as James.

“No, and I don’t intend to again, either.”

He said nothing as we walked up the long drive.

“I’m not gay,” I said, at last.

“No, but you are not a real boy, no?

“Probably not,” I admitted.

“You are a girl, in your mind, yes?”

I stopped walking.

“Are you teasing me?” I asked, feeling threatened.

“No, I not teasing. I speak what I see. I see a girl inside a boy.”

I cried then, starting to walk off very quickly. I was annoyed at my weakness and my emotions. Why couldn’t I be like everyone else and normal?

His firm hand grabbed my arm, stopping me and turning me around so I was facing him.

“What?” I asked, angrily.

“Don’t be angry wis me, I not your enemy.”

“What the hell are you then?” I asked, almost hysterically.

“I vant to be your friend.”

“Friend or lover?” I asked sarcastically.

He shrugged. “Which you like?”

“Like, or prefer?”

He grinned in the darkness. “See, you still make me better. Prefer, which you prefer?”

“I don’t know. I want a friend, but she might want a lover!” I said, without thinking properly.

“She?”

I looked at him.

“Inside of me is a girl. Sometimes she gets out. You saw her today and the other night in the washroom. She’s not here now, so a friend would be fine.”

“Dat’s cool.”

We continued walking. I didn’t feel like talking, as I was confused.

“So, ven does she get out again?”

“Martin, it’s not that easy. She’ll get out for the next rehearsal and for the two performances, okay?”

“She has a name, no?”

“Jane.”

“Jane is very pretty.”

“Thanks, I think.”

He chuckled as we walked.

“Are you gay?” I asked.

“Perhaps. I don’t know. I think I like Jane. Is she a girl or a boy?”

“A girl,” I said emphatically.

“Then I not gay, ja?” he asked, grinning at me.

We reached the house, so I paused by the door.

“Goodnight Martin.”

“Gut-nacht, mein liebling!”

“Bollocks to you, mate!” I said angrily as I went to my common room, leaving him laughing at my back. I hated the world at that moment.

Thankfully, Martin left me alone until the day of the second performance. I’d half expected him to try something silly at the second dress rehearsal, but he never showed.

However, in the final week of term, we put the play on for the school on the Friday and then for parents on the Saturday. I have to admit, the actual play was fine, we all did what we were meant to, but Jane was so delighted at her freedom, she excelled all Mr Groves’s expectations, hogging the limelight and overacting dreadfully.

We were all backstage, changing for the second performance. The first had gone down really well with the school, with Jane basking in her newfound glory. As the only female character of any degree of sexiness, she was the only recipient of the many catcalls and whistles.

Mrs Groves came over to where I was changing.

“How are you, kiddo?” she asked.

“Fine,” I replied, meaning it. I was on a peak, the excitement and anticipation was like a drug coursing through my veins.

“You did so well last time, don’t let it go to your head. No adlibbing and no sexual overtones, young lady!”

I simply grinned at her before she could correct her slip. The fact that I came over as a girl was the most superlative compliment anyone could ever pay me.

She saw her mistake, smiled and shook her head.

“Go break a leg!”

I was just finishing my makeup, when one of the guys on props passed me a small cardboard box. Frowning I turned it round and opened it. There was a single red rose inside, with a small note attached.
 
 

Good luck Jane. X Martin

 
 
I smiled, but felt suddenly rather sad. For more than anything else, I wanted to live as Jane and not James. For all that was Jane within me, I knew that nothing would ever happen while I was James.

So, feeling slightly more sober, I went out to perform better than Mr Groves could ever have hoped. The play was a roaring success, and from that moment I had established myself as a leading girl for every play over the next three years.

Afterwards, the atmosphere backstage was euphoric. Mr Groves was delighted, already planning another play in the following year. My parents hadn’t attended, as my father was disgusted that I should be given a female role. I neglected to say I’d actually been quite pleased, as I didn’t feel he would appreciate the truth.

Gavin Small, one of the other actors, and a couple of the stagehands came over to where I was sitting, drinking cold lemonade. I was still in costume, as I was reluctant to have to return to being a boy.

“You did brilliantly, you look like a real girl!” said Gavin.

I was torn, part of me wanted to hug him for what he said, and yet another part of me wanted to deny it and become embarrassed in case anyone could see how much I loved being a girl. I compromised.

“Huh, thanks,” I grunted, smiling inside.

“Yeah, I’ve just spoken to my Mum, and she thought you were a girl.”

She who dwelled inside me was singing with delight, yet I couldn’t show it.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, she even asked me how we managed to get a girl into an all boy school.”

I’m ashamed to say, the smile broke through. “Really?”

“You’d better watch your arse, as the gay boys will be out to get you now!” said Andy Russell, who’d played the part of the murderer. He had listened to the conversation.

“They know it’s only a play!” I protested.

“Sure, just don’t look as if you enjoyed it so much.”

“It was fun. I don’t give a toss about dressing up, as I’m not hung up about it!” I said. Not half, you’re not!

Everyone else had changed. I couldn’t put it off any longer, so I started to remove my glory. Mrs Groves came over to me.

“Well done, you were even better tonight. Why do you think that was?”

“I don’t know. I think I just tried to make believe it was true.”

She smiled at me, but there was a degree of pity in the smile, so I felt a little sad.

“Would you like to keep some of the costumes?” she asked.

I thought about it, but shook my head, despite being sorely tempted.

“I’d better not. I’d do something I might regret.”

“You really ought to talk to someone, like a doctor.”

“What could they do? My parents wouldn’t dream of allowing me to do anything.”

“It’s your life, not theirs.”

“Tell that to my Dad.”

“You’re going to get hurt, if you’re not careful.”

“Then I’ll have to be careful, won’t I?”

“James, I’ve been involved in boys’ boarding schools for the last twenty years, so believe me when I say, you shouldn’t be here!”

I laughed. “Really? What can I do about it?”

“If you see the doctor, then perhaps there’s a way out.”

“And bring shame and disgrace on the school, the family and my bloody father?” I said heatedly.

She looked away, but I caught the light refracting through her tears. I was astounded, for she was crying for me. I reached out and touched her arm.

“Look, Mrs Groves, I really appreciate your concern, but I have become very good at acting the part. I’ve managed for years, I’m sure I can see my time out.”

She looked back at me; I was unnerved to see so much care in her expression.

“Then promise me that if things get bad, you’ll come and see me?”

I nodded.

“You really are a very pretty girl,” she said, turning and walking away.

Martin was waiting for me when I left, having changed, as I was the last to leave the theatre.

“You did very good.”

“That’s very well,” I said, automatically correcting him. “Thanks.”

“I go home soon. I write to you, ja?”

“Martin, why? This is pointless, isn’t it?”

“I like you and want to be a friend.”

I stopped and looked at him. “Really? Just a friend, or something more?”

He looked away, shrugging but saying nothing.

“I’m not gay, Martin, and despite what I feel inside, I’m not a girl, so what you want isn’t available. Okay?”

He smiled but nodded. “Okay, just a friend then?”

We walked on up the hill. I was calm on the outside but having a real conflict inside. Jane wanted to keep the contact, but I knew there was no point.

“Well?” he asked as we reached the top of the hill.

“If you write, I might write back, but no promises.”

“Gut! That is all I ask for.”

I said goodnight to him and went into the common room. I was greeted with good-humoured banter and low level teasing about my acting a girl. It was in good spirit so I took no offence and slumped in the corner with a book for a while.

The term ended and we all went home for Christmas. Martin managed to say goodbye to me before getting the taxi to the airport. He was quite adamant that he would write, so I gave him neither encouragement nor discouragement. I did find out his surname, it was Stressler, and he came from a small village close to Aachen, near the Dutch/Belgian border.

During the car journey home, my father was exceptionally jovial, and was full of good advice on everything from career to women. I switched him off and lost my mind to a perfect fantasy word where Jane met Martin and fell in love.
 
 
Chapter 3. War
 
 
The rest of my school life was pretty dull and uneventful. Apart from when I took the female parts in two more plays, I became the model student and lost myself in the activities of the day. As a reasonable shot, the College CCF (Army Cadets) selected me to represent the school at the annual Bisley competition. I assisted them to second place overall and scored high enough to get into the top five individual places.

I was promoted to Cadet Sergeant, so my father began to manipulate me towards selecting the army as a career. I was so lost that I desperately wanted to attain his approval. Looking back on it now, I realise that he was trying to re-live his life again through me. He had seen wartime service, but regretted several weaknesses and bad decisions he had made, so in a strange way, he was seeking to make up for them through me.

I didn’t matter, as it was what I achieved and what I became that he felt was important. What I wanted or needed was irrelevant and unimportant to him.

Martin kept his promise and wrote to me. He was another confused teen; only he had no problem with his own gender. His letters became more and more affectionate, so I stopped writing back. He wrote to tell me he had left school, only to be drafted into West Germany’s National Service system and was going into the army.

I just got on with life, putting as must effort into my A levels to try to bury Jane. She came into my mind every night and would slip me into my fantasy world before I went to sleep. Every time I masturbated, I could only become aroused if I imagined myself female and being on the receiving end of a man making love to me. More often than not, my story somehow got me to Germany and, increasingly, it was Martin who made love to me.

I left school, with reasonable but not wonderful grades and, rightly or wrongly, I applied for a commission in the army, specifically the Parachute Regiment.

Why? You may ask.

Good question.

I believed that it was the toughest and most respected regiment in the British Army, so some dumb part of my brain must have determined that by becoming a soldier, those parts of the inner me that made my life so difficult would be destroyed.

To my shock and surprise, and my father’s delight, I passed the Regular Commissions Board, entering Sandhurst in 1976, aged just nineteen. I have to admit, the army made a man of me. That may sound trite, but to be honest, for the first time in my life, I was so busy that I actually managed to exist without the inner voice being heard at all.

Sandhurst wasn’t that far removed from my boarding school. Instead of academic subjects, one learned how to be a soldier. In a silly sort of way, it was like being a cadet all the time. Indeed, that’s what they called us - Officer Cadets. Sports were still a major part of life, so, once again, I found myself as an active scrum half, representing Sandhurst against many opponents. My father’s pride grew, making my task to deliver the truth even more difficult.

The course from civilian to Second Lieutenant took six months in those days. If one was signed on as a Regular, then there was another six months that followed on directly after attaining one’s commission. However, I had signed on for a short service commission, so after six months I joined my regiment and trained to become a paratrooper. I extended my time later, but that was once again due to my failure to face up to the realities of what I should be. It was easier to exist in a world where I didn’t have to make that decision.

I made a good soldier. I’d like to think I made a good officer, as I was genuinely concerned about those I supervised. I had common sense and was able to use my initiative. I adored the parachuting and abseiling from helicopters; I learned to drive most land vehicles, light water craft and fire most weapons that were in common use. I even signed up for an arctic survival course, which saw a small group of us dropped into Lapland with the minimum of equipment and only the basics of how to survive the extreme conditions.

Everything was a challenge, allowing me to stretch myself, while, at the same time, to forget that inner voice that had been such a pain through puberty and my teen years. I found out the men called me ‘Jim Lad’, from the R. L. Stevenson book, Treasure Island. My fellow officers took to calling me Jamie, to distinguish me from another officer called James. I managed to exist as James or Jamie, but somehow knew that Jane wouldn’t stay quiet forever. However, I was content to allow her to remain dormant. It was actually a relief not to have her invading most of my waking thoughts.

I’d been on three tours of Northern Ireland before she finally released herself from whatever bound her. I was involved in several nasty skirmishes with terrorists and my fear must have awakened her.

On the last, it was late 1981 and I was a lieutenant in charge of a checkpoint on the border. A Ford Transit approached the checkpoint and obviously wasn’t going to stop. Our major fear was vehicle bombs, but from behind the Transit came a Vauxhall saloon with two passengers pointing automatic weapons out of their windows.

The Transit rammed our Land Rover, as the driver leaped free and jumped into the back of the Vauxhall. The transit exploded and automatic fire from the car caused us to seek cover and return fire. The soldier standing next to me was wounded, while I was directing fire at the escaping car.

Our fire was accurate and deadly. The car slewed across the road and ended in the ditch, where the petrol tank exploded in a ball of fire. All four men were killed, while only three soldiers were wounded, none seriously. The four fatalities were burned beyond recognition, but were later identified by dental records as active Provisional IRA members. Incidentally, the pathologist stated that all four had been killed by rifle-fire and not the explosion.

A couple of days later, whilst on a rest period, I drank rather more than I should have done. Everyone deals with post-traumatic stress in different ways - some men become aggressive, others sexually predatory, while others puke, fart and fall over. When drunk, I think too deeply, but not necessarily that accurately.

I thought about all those things that I hadn’t thought about for a very long time. The result was an overwhelming urge to become Jane. I had to resist, but the result was Jane was back with a vengeance. Once more, I spent much of my waking day thinking those familiar thoughts.

I made my mind up to leave the army and explore my possibilities. However, fate had other plans. Firstly, my conduct in the Province hastened my promotion to Captain and, in 1982, President General Leopoldo Galtieri decided to elevate his poor political standing in Argentina by attempting a popular invasion of a group of rocks that they believed they should own, but we (the British) actually held.

They called them the Malvinas, but they were the Falkland Islands to us, and so I was despatched to see another theatre of war before I could seek my eventual destiny.

With my leave cut short, my intentions frustrated and my plans were set back by a few years. Instead of becoming the person I wanted to be, I set sail for the other side of the world as a Captain in 2 Para. My everlasting memory of that embarkation was the band of the Parachute Regiment paying, ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina!’ from the musical Evita, as we boarded the ship at the docks.

It was a surreal experience, as life on the ship gave an air of a holiday mood. The excitement and anticipation of the young soldiers was very evident. Expressions like, ‘we’re going to kick Argie arse!’ were prevalent. Those of us more experienced knew that although we were probably far more professional as an army, the Argentines were not going to roll over at the first sight of the Union Flag.

However, we finally arrived in the region and, during the night of the 21^st May, we made what the official report stated as an unopposed amphibious landing on beaches near San Carlos Water, on the northern coast of East Falkland. In reality, it was very dark, cold and uncertain. We didn’t know what sort of reception awaited us. Gone was the brave talk, the macho bragging and cheerful banter. Instead, the faces were pale and the voices were silent, as each man contemplated his own mortality. I went ashore as one of the four thousand men of the 3rd Commando Brigade, which included the 2nd (my battalion) and 3rd battalions of the Parachute Regiment (2 and 3 Para), from the amphibious ships and the liner Canberra: 2 Para and 40 Commando landing at San Carlos beach; 45 Commando at Ajax bay; 3 Para at Port San Carlos.

By dawn the next day, we had established a secure bridgehead from which to conduct offensive operations. From there Brigadier Thompson's plan was to capture Darwin and Goose Green before turning towards the capital, Stanley.

Now, May in the UK is a mild month, promising summer just around the corner. In the Falklands, May is the month that promises winter - the November of the south. The weather wasn’t the attractive feature of these distant isles, even in summer. In fact, if I have to be honest, I couldn’t actually find one attractive feature, so often wondered what the hell we were doing there!

We were very glad to be on dry land, for the Argentine air force, once alerted to our presence, threw everything they had at us, particularly towards the ships still in the bay. At sea, the paucity of the Royal Naval ships’ anti-aircraft defences was demonstrated in the sinking of HMS Ardent on the 21^st, HMS Antelope on the 23^rd, and MV Atlantic, with a vital cargo of helicopters, runway building equipment and tents on the 25^th. The loss of all but one of the Chinook Helicopters being carried by the Atlantic Conveyor was a severe blow from a logistics perspective; the sole surviving Chinook was called Bravo November. Also lost on this day was HMS Coventry, a sister to HMS Sheffield, whilst in company with HMS Broadsword. HMS Argonaut and HMS Brilliant were badly damaged.

However, many of our ships escaped terminal damage due to the Argentine pilots' bombing tactics. The topography of San Carlos Water dictated that the pilots were forced to swoop in and launch their bombs from a low altitude at the very last moment. While undoubtedly brave, the late releasing of bombs meant that many never exploded, as there was insufficient time in the air for them to arm themselves. The Argentines lost over thirty aircraft in these attacks, including several Pucará¡s.

The only neighboring country that aided Argentina during the war was Peru, which provided a number of French built Mirage 5P fighter planes from the Peruvian Air Force, ships, and medical teams. This was after Peruvian president Belaunde announced that his country was "ready to support Argentina with all the resources it needed."

Neighboring Chile, under Pinochet’s regime, became the only South American country to aid Britain by providing important logistical support during the war.

Starting early on 27^th May and through the 28t^h, we in 2 Para approached and attacked Darwin and Goose Green, which was held by the Argentine 12th Infantry Regiment.

Much of the fighting was at night. The sky was decorated by lines and lines of tracer, flares and a myriad of multi-coloured explosions. It was like a very lethal but beautiful firework display. The Argentines used so many flares that night vision was rendered completely useless. However, their use of flares and tracer enabled us to pinpoint their positions with the greatest of ease. It still wasn’t the pushover than many anticipated.

After a tough struggle, which lasted all night and into the next day, seventeen British and fifty five Argentine soldiers had been killed, and one thousand and fifty Argentine troops taken prisoner. Due to a gaffe by the BBC, the taking of Goose Green was announced on the BBC World Service before it had actually happened. It was during this attack that Lt.Col. H. Jones, the commanding officer of 2 Para was killed. I was within two hundred yards of him when he died. He was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross. I don’t doubt he was a very gallant man, but his sergeant summed him up when he called him a “Daft bugger!” Mind you, that could be levied at all of us who make it a practice of jumping out of perfectly serviceable aircraft attached to a few pieces of cord and a piece of cloth.

At one point during that night, I found myself sharing a slight depression in the ground with one of the soldiers in my company. Tracer was zipping overhead and small arms fire was happening to make us keep our heads down. The enemy knew we were out here somewhere, but were unsure exactly where and how many of us. Displaying bad discipline and typical nerves, they fired at everything and nothing, allowing us to work out their numbers and locations. Young Mathers was just nineteen and the Falklands was his first taste of action. Some taste!

“Are we gonna die, sir?” the young Scots paratrooper asked.

“Only if you stick your head up and get it blown off.”

“What the fuck are we doin’ here, anyway, sir?”

I thought about his question, and for the life of me couldn’t come up with a witty or sensible reply.

“Politics, Mathers, politics.”

“Politics?”

“You see, some English politician makes a decision a century ago, then along comes another politician in a different country, he makes a decision and then one of our politicians makes another and we get told to come here and die.”

“That’s daft, sir. I mean, who the fuck gives a toss aboot this fucking piece of rock?”

I looked about me, seeing the advance on enemy positions taking place.

“We do, it seems, come on!” With that philosophical debate over, I led my company on to a small victory.

With the sizeable Argentine force at Goose Green out of the way, British forces were now able to break out of the San Carlos bridgehead. From the 27^th May, men of 45 Commando and 3 Para started walking across East Falkland towards the coastal settlement of Teal Inlet.

Meanwhile 42 Commando and the SAS moved by helicopter to within sight of Stanley where they seized Mt Kent and Mt Challenger. The SAS had several clashes with Argentine Commandos in the Mount Kent area, and although four SAS were wounded, the Argentines, who were members of the 602nd Commando Company, had the worst of the clashes. They had two men killed and one captured in an SAS ambush at Bluff Cove Peak in an action on the 30^th May. First Lieutenant Ruben Eduardo Marquez and Sergeant Oscar Humberto Blas were posthumously decorated for their part in this action.

On the 31^st May, nineteen Royal Marine Commandos successfully engaged Argentinian Commandos who had moved into Top Malo House. All thirteen Argentinian Commandos were killed or captured during the forty minute attack.

By June the 1^st, with the arrival of a further five thousand British troops of 5 Infantry Brigade landed at San Carlos from Canberra, Norland and Stromness having transferred from the liner RMS QE II at South Georgia, new British divisional commander, Major General J.J. Moore RM, had sufficient force to start planning an offensive against Stanley.

During this build-up the Argentine air assaults on the British naval forces continued, killing forty eight, including thirty two Welsh Guardsmen on the RFA Sir Galahad and the RFA Sir Tristram on June 8^th. Many others suffered serious burns (including, famously, Simon Weston). These troops were still on the ships because of the loss of the helicopters on the Atlantic Conveyor. This meant that they had had to be transferred around the islands by ship. Unfortunately, the commanders of the landing force ignored the advice of naval commanders to disembark at the earliest opportunity.

On the night of the 11^th June, after several days of painstaking reconnaissance and logistic build-up, our forces launched a brigade-sized night attack against the heavily defended ring of high ground surrounding Stanley. Units of 3 Commando Brigade, supported by naval gunfire from several Royal Navy ships, simultaneously assaulted Mount Harriet, Two Sisters, and Mount Longdon. During this battle thirteen were killed when HMS Glamorgan, which was providing naval gunfire support, was struck by an Exocet fired from the back of a truck, further displaying the vulnerability of ships to anti-ship missiles. On this day Sgt Ian McKay of 4 Platoon, B Company, 3 Para died in a grenade attack on an Argentine bunker which was to earn him a posthumous Victoria Cross. After a night of fierce fighting all objectives were secured.

The night of June the 13^th, saw the start of the second phase of attacks, in which the momentum of the initial assault was maintained. I was back in action again. It was imperative that we controlled the high ground overlooking Stanley. Tacticians down the ages have always recognised this important strategy, and so our commanders did also.

We (2 Para) captured Wireless Ridge, while the 2nd battalion, Scots Guards captured Mount Tumbledown. As the fighting was coming to a close, the Falklands Islanders on the eastern edge of Stanley were in imminent danger of being shot at by a platoon of the Argentine 3rd Infantry Regiment as the conscripts and regulars steeled themselves for the final house-to-house battle near Government House. This is revealed in the book The Battle For The Falklands by Max Hastings and Simon Jenkins. Brigadier-General Oscar Jofre, Commander of the elite 10th Argentine Mechanized Infantry Brigade, has admitted that the abrupt end of the ground fighting was hastened by fear of war crimes against the civilians.

On the 14^th June the commander of the Argentine garrison in Stanley, Mario Menendez, surrendered to Major General J.J. Moore Royal Marines. Nine thousand eight hundred Argentine troops were made POWs and were repatriated to Argentina on the liner Canberra. On June 20^th, the British retook the South Sandwich Islands, (which involved accepting the surrender of the Southern Thule Garrison at the Corbeta Uruguay base) and declared the hostilities were at an end.

The war lasted seventy-four days, with two hundred and fifty-five British and six hundred and fifty-five Argentine soldiers, sailors, and airmen, killed, with many more wounded. I had been through an experience that I never hoped to repeat. Perversely, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!
 
 
Chapter 4. Starting Over
 
 
As soon as I was able, I returned to the UK, immediately resigned my commission and flew up to Scotland a different person. I had decided what to do, so sought the right medical people and made my decisions after receiving the green light from my psychiatrist. I was able to stand up to my father, so denying him any further direct influence over my life.

After our stand-off and his denying my existence, which I have already recounted, I made my way back to London to start on my exciting and tough course of action. For those who believe that those who change sex are weak and sissy, I defy anyone to face the shame, ridicule, pain, discomfort, emotional turmoil and general rejection and psychological stress that we take on as part of the necessary side effects of our decisions.

“So, bit of a come down for one of Her Majesty’s gallant officers?” said Mark, as he showed me round the small shop that I was to run on his behalf.

“It’s fine. I really appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“That’s no problem, old chum. We couldn’t have you languishing away and selling your story to the News of the World, could we?” He was referring to a recent sex-change story that caused a sensation. An ex-policeman had sold his story to the aforesaid mentioned periodical for enough money to pay for his operation.

I smiled, but said nothing. I had no intention of making any sort of waves at all. The media were an ever present threat, and one I intended to keep well clear of.

“Look, Jamie love, we’re just chuffed that you came along when you did. It was becoming a real drag having to cover three shops at once. The last manager stole from us something rotten, so believe me, you are a God-send.”

Mark, at thirty, was a sliver short of six foot, but was very slim and languid of movement. He wasn’t camp, just very fluid. Always impeccably dressed in either a suit or navy double breasted blazer, he looked the stereotypical civil servant. His days in the navy had given him a sound grounding in people management skills and, to his credit, he held no ill feelings towards a service who effectively threw him out for being gay.

“You have to remember, old son, I was hardly the right calibre. Being in such close proximity to so many gorgeous men was just too much!” he told me with a smile.

“Why did you join?” I asked.

“I always wanted to join, ever since I was a little boy. By the time I was fourteen and worked out that I was gay, it just reinforced my determination. Actually, if they just accepted us, gays I mean, the navy would be a wonderful organisation, with really committed chaps all determined to prove they could do a better job than the straights; with the advantage of no unwanted pregnancies!”

He made me laugh. He was openly gay, so didn’t care who knew. Yet he wasn’t into the gay scene and there was nothing effeminate about him either. Rod, his partner, in both the sexual and business sense, was very different. He was my height, plump and rather camp. He’d been an art teacher, but couldn’t take the constant teasing by pupils and other members of staff. He was slightly older than Mark, so at thirty-eight, was very conscious that he was losing his hair and youthful figure. His love of art had drawn him to the art world, so he was the painting and art expert of the partnership. Mark adored old furniture and china, leaving the paintings and sculptures to his friend.

They lived in a very plush flat above their original shop just off the Kind Road, which contained the furniture, china, silver and jewellery. Their second shop was in Sloane Street, only a ten-minute walk away. The latter shop was their paintings and general antique art shop. The third shop, the one I was to manage, was in Knightsbridge and was more your soft furnishings and interior design outlet. Mark and Rod had a mutual friend who restored old furniture as a hobby. However, they’d found a niche in the market and exploited it. Steven Hayes, the friend, had been made redundant by BP, so he and his wife started doing friends’ interiors.

They had turned their garage into a workshop, but now had outgrown that as the hobby had turned into a lucrative business. The new shop had a large workshop to the rear. Steven renovated the furniture, while Sarah would undertake the home visits, give quotes and buy the material. Mark would often buy dilapidated antique furniture for Steven to renovate, so once complete, they’d sell it in the shop at a reasonable profit. My job was to manage the shop.

The flat above the shop wasn’t huge. With two bedrooms, a bathroom and a large open plan living room, with kitchen and dining area, it was ideal for me. There was even room for my MG out the back.

I’d immediately undertaken some research into the local doctors and found on that was sympathetic to transsexuals. Rachel Hemmings was a GP at a surgery some five minutes walk from my flat. I’d been given her name by a TS/TV/TG self-help group based in Hammersmith.

I’d gone to the surgery, signed on and made my first appointment.

Rachel was a plump fifty, with a lovely smile and terrible dress sense. She was married to another doctor who was a gynaecologist at St Marys Hospital in Paddington. Their eldest son was at St Marys studying to be a doctor, so it must be in the blood.

“Hello, James Allan, is it?”

“That’s right.”

She leafed through my notes that had come from the Army Medical Corps. After reading through them, she looked up and smiled.

“Well, you seem a lot fitter than most, what’s the problem, or is it just a check up?”

“Neither, really. I was given your name because I need a sympathetic GP.”

“Really, why?”

I steeled myself to tell her. For once it was out, I was committed to follow this as far as they’d let me.

“Well, I’ve known since I was about four that I should have been a girl. Now’s the time to try to become one.”

Ste stared at me with her smile fixed in place. I’d half expected her to laugh or make some sarcastic comment. As it was, her expression never changed, still maintaining a friendly smile.

“Golly, well, I have to admit, I never expected that!”

I smiled. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be silly. You poor man, has it been awful?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say it has been. Sometime it’s been worse than that.”

“Does your family know?”

I nodded. “Yes I told them last time I was up north. They live in Scotland.”

“Are they supportive?”

“My mother is, within the constraints placed upon her by my father. My father is in a state of complete denial. I no longer exist in his eyes.”

I then explained about my circumstances, which turned into a potted history. She was interested and caring, so I found myself sharing everything with her. I had never shared this much with anyone, ever!

“Gracious, you were in the Flaklands?”

“Yup, for my sins.”

“And Northern Ireland?”

“Three tours.”

“May I ask a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“Are you gay?”

“I’m not sure. That isn’t a cop-out, it’s just that my gender identity has been such a problem, so my sexuality hasn’t really impacted much. I’ve been tempted with a boy, once, and had sex with a couple of girls. I think I did the latter because it was expected of me rather than I desperately wanted to. I also felt that perhaps that was all that was needed to cure me of being a transsexual. It didn’t!”

“Of course it wouldn’t, but then you weren’t to know that. Are you in a relationship at the moment?”

“No.”

“Well, I think I can help you. I have to say, it’s a long and difficult path you’ve chosen, are you aware of the seriousness of the situation?”

“Oh yes, I’ve read and researched so much, I could write a thesis on the subject. I just need to make a start. I’m committed to this, so I’m in your hands.”

Once I had taken that step, there followed meetings and examinations with an independent psychiatrist called Lydia. She wouldn’t be responsible for seeing me through the procedure, as a gender specialist would be the one who’d do that. Lydia had to provide a full independent assessment before any action would be taken. A month later, after I was officially diagnosed as suffering from acute gender dysphoria, I was given my first dose of androgens and oestrogen.

“Don’t expect overnight transformation. This process will take a long time, and I mean in years, not months.” Rachel told me.

“I’m not that bothered, the fact I’ve reached this point is almost unbelievable.”

“Well, you have a few factors to your advantage, your size and your fitness level to start with. The regimen of hormones is physically exacting, so you need to attempt to maintain a reasonable level of fitness. You will probably find it tough, as the hormones may affect you mental attitude and general moods, even inducing depression and lethargy. There is also a good chance that you may experience a weight gain. This is quite a common side effect, but one you need to watch.”

She was quite right, as I noticed very little change for the first few weeks. My life was very dull. I kept myself to myself, working in the shop and spending my time reading or going to the theatre. I had a small circle of friends, all made recently and all aware of my intended transition. I decided to wait until such time as my body told me that it was female enough to make the real life test worthwhile. I’d seen so many transsexuals who just weren’t ready for that stage, but I suppose it’s such a difficult call to make, as it is such a subjective decision.

I found a hairdressing salon that also offered electrolysis for unwanted hair removal. I bit the bullet and entered, asking if they’d do my facial hair for me.

The woman, whom I later learned was called Stella, was non-judgemental and proved completely unshockable.

“Listen love, I don’t care why you want it, I can guess, and I’m sure you’ll tell me if and when you feel I should know. Your money is why I’m in business, so as long as you want to give me some, I’ll do whatever you want, within reason, that is.”

Managing the shop was a quiet existence where I could read and even started to write a novel. I had been aware that tourism is the major industry in London, but working in the West End brought it home to me. I’d never been involved with guarding the palaces, thank goodness, but as I walked around the capital, it dawned on me how much we depended upon our overseas visitors. Many London businesses depended upon tourism to a greater or lesser extent.

After I’d been on the hormones for eight weeks, my doctor decided to set a date for starting my real life test. I’d concluded my electrolysis treatment, which I found painful and unpleasant at best. I noticed several small but subtle changes in my physiology. The areas around my nipples were puffy and tender, while the nipples had started to swell and were more sensitive than I remembered.

I found my complexion was clearer than ever and my hair had started to thicken.

“You’ve lost some muscle tone on your upper body,” Rachel remarked one afternoon, after I’d closed early to make my appointment with her.

“My muscles are withering away,” I said.

“Hardly, but the hormones will affect them. You’ve maintained your fitness training?”

“I run three miles every day; then I use my weights and rowing machine.”

“Impressive, have you noticed many changes?”

“Well, I’m deliberately not trying to power lift. I need to maintain my tone, but I’m not building or maintaining my old levels of strength. I was curious, so did try to lift my optimum, but came nowhere close.”

“You’re looking more slender.”

“Yeah, but not as feminine as I’d like.”

Rachel chuckled. “No, not overtly, but slowly and steadily, we are seeing some subtle changes. I think you should start your RLT soon.”

“How soon?” I asked. This was so odd, as I’d been desperate to start this, but now this moment loomed, I was having a real concern.

“Within the next few weeks. Why, having a touch of the seconds?”

“Not really, I think I’m terrified of making a fool of myself. I don’t want to be seen as a freak.”

“That’s a common fear, all transsexuals go through that. You must set a date for the RLT, and build up to it. So, as from tomorrow, you must start spending at least one hour a day as a woman. Start attending sessions in makeup, deportment, voice training and general relevant subjects. That way, by the time your date arrives, you’ll be all set.”

“I suppose so. What date?”

“Well, starting with an hour a day, doubling it every day, I suggest about two weeks from today. By that time, you’ll be ready to live full time in your female persona. I’ll refer you to Doctor Green; he’s the psychiatrist who’ll be dealing with you from now on.”

I grinned nervously. “It’s all a bit daunting, isn’t it?”

“You don’t have to do it. It’s not too late to stop and take stock.”

“No, I’ve come this far. I just need to make sure I get things right.”

I went straight back to my flat and called Mark.

“So, we get to see Jane, tomorrow?”

“Perhaps.”

“Look, Jamie, I have this friend, she’s an actress, but currently between jobs. Do you remember me talking about Leonard who became Lynne?”

“Yes, someone you were in the navy with, she did what I’m doing about a year ago.”

“Right. Well, Suzannah helped Lynne with makeup and lots of other little tips. Would you like me to ask if she could give you a few pointers?”

“If you could. I’ve been given details of special classes for people like me being held at a TG/TS drop-in clinic. To be honest, I’d rather get things right before going out in public. I’m so terrified at being seen as a freak.”

“Well, Lynne was a shade smaller than six foot, and she made it, eventually. You are so much more the right size and shape, you’ll have no trouble, my sweet.”

“Thanks, Mark, you’re wonderful.”

“Don’t tell Rod, he’ll expect something he’s not getting. Bye for now.”

I sat back and stared at the telephone. I glanced around my small flat, suddenly feeling alone.
 
 
Chapter 5. Freed From the Constraints
 
 
I had never really been alone before this. Despite being an only child, my extended family was quite numerous, so never really went for long without company of some description. With schooling and the army, I had had very little time by myself. The only occasions I had been alone, I took the opportunity to become Jane.

Now I was alone and free to actually do it for real, I hesitated. I shook my head, as it was so silly. This was the moment for which I’d been longing for my entire life. Okay, perhaps the first four years don’t count. In any case, it had been a dream, but now it was a reality, I was having doubts.

“Don’t be an arse!” I said aloud.

I went into my bedroom and opened my wardrobe. Jane’s clothes took over half of the space, but apart from occasionally dressing in the privacy of my home, I’d restrained from becoming her too often, as I still had a body I despised. In fact, I simply dressed in a shirt and jeans most days. I was so terrified of being seen by someone I knew, I never dared go out dressed.

I stripped off all my clothes, noting that my body was virtually hairless. I’d been applying various noxious pastes to remove leg and arm hair. My chest had always been free of hair, and my face was now free of the hated stubble, at some cost, both in pain and money!

I selected a pair of tights, panties and a bra and started becoming Jane. In order to give my waist a more feminine look, I struggled into an elastic corset, which I covered with a slip. The corset helped push up my flesh to give an impression of a cleavage and nipped my waist by a couple of inches. I spent a long time on my makeup, even plucking some stray hairs from my eyebrows. Finally, I pulled on a knee-length skirt and a cream short sleeve blouse. My hair was still quite short, but when back-combed and fluffed up, it managed to look suitably feminine.

My hips were still rather too slender, but with a narrower waist and breast forms inserted in my bra, my shape was looking more feminine than before. I inserted some pearl earrings into my newly pierced ears.

I sat back, pleased with my efforts. It wasn’t as if I’d no practice, but I had yet to venture out. The telephone interrupted my train of thought.

“Hello.”

“Hello, could I speak to James Allan, please?” it was a female voice.

“Speaking,” I said, automatically modulating my voice to be Jane.

She laughed, “I’m sorry, I thought you were a woman. My name is Suzannah Lennox, Mark Riley called and asked if I would like to contact you with regards a little job.”

“Oh, hello, yes, he mentioned it. It’s very kind of you.”

“Well, when would be convenient?”

“It’s up to you. I’m free now, and most weekday afternoons after five.”

She had a nice voice, which chuckled again.

“I’m free all the time as work is somewhat slow at the moment, so I take whatever I can get. I could meet you now, if you’d like?”

“Okay, where?”

“I can come to you, if you tell me where?” she said.

I gave her my address. It turns out she only lived in Putney, so she wasn’t that far away. I put the phone down, feeling quite nervous at meeting someone as Jane. I spent the next twenty minutes tidying the already pristine flat. When the doorbell rang at about four-thirty, I was already at fifty thousand feet.

I answered the door to find an attractive auburn haired girl standing there. She was in jeans and a pale green pullover with a dark jacket. She gaped at me, so I immediately felt self-conscious.

“Hi, I’m here to see James.”

“Come in,” I said, opening the door.

“Is he still here, or has he done a bunk?” she said with a chuckle, coming in and looking round. “Nice flat.”

“Thanks, and I’m James, although I think I’d rather be called Jane, if that’s okay.”

She looked at me in some surprise. “You? Shit! What do you want me for? You’re gorgeous!”

I blushed to the depths of my roots.

“Seriously, I thought you were a real girl, never for a moment did it cross my mind that you were James.”

“Thanks, but I don’t feel that confident.”

“Why not? Bloody hell, girl, you look sexier than I do!”

I smiled but said nothing.

She walked round me, taking her time to look me up and down.

“Okay, you have good dress sense, great legs and a proportionate figure, slightly to slim in the bum, but your hormones will take care of that in no time. Your face is a little masculine, but you’ve taken care of the nose and chin through sensible makeup. You hair, darling, what the hell can we do with that?”

I shrugged, so she pulled me into the bathroom. A few minutes later she’d wet it and was blow-drying it with a styling brush.

“You need a professional job, but we’ll have to wait until it grows out a tad before we can get anything sensible done. It’s a lovely colour, strawberry blonde if I’m not mistaken.”

“Is it?”

“Show me your wardrobe, darling.”

I did so. She took all my clothes out, throwing them on the bed.

“Positively dowdy! You, my love, are only in your twenties, correct?”

“Twenty-seven, yes.”

“Right, you and I are going out, this is definitely a time to let Jane meet her public, and get the poor repressed cow a new look!”

I stared at her with some trepidation.

“What, now?”

“Why not? You look wonderful.”

She told me to grab my bag, being somewhat surprised when I told her I hadn’t got one.

“Right, then we are going to have to get you some essentials. Come on!” she grabbed my arm and physically dragged me out of the flat, just leaving me enough time to grab my wallet and lock the door.

We walked along arm in arm, as if we were close friends. I liked her immediately, as she was just so bubbly and outgoing. She was wearing some high-heeled boots, so we were about the same height.

“Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve ventured out?”

I nodded, staring at the ground.

“Okay, lesson one, look up and walk with a little swing. If you place one foot in front of the other, pointing the toes out slightly, you’ll swing naturally. Men walk differently, as their feet fall in front of the hip and not each foot. Also, try to keep your shoulders still, let the hips swing, so don’t swagger with the shoulders.”

We walked to the bus stop and stood waiting for the next bus. It was May, the sun was out and there was a feel that summer was just around the corner. So, unlike that May just two short years ago, when I’d been part of the Falklands war. I was now well and truly on my way to being what I wanted to be. There was a long way to go still.

“So, why did you feel you wanted help?” she asked, as we waited.

“I just need someone to watch what I do and tell me where I’m going wrong. Just like this,” I replied with a smile. “I just didn’t imagine getting out so soon.”

“What are you worried about? You look the part, sound the part and nothing about you says you’re a man dressed up!”

“I’m not sure; I just don’t feel the part.”

“Okay, then let’s do this gradually. Believe me, I meet all sorts in the theatrical circles, and you are utterly convincing!”

“What about my voice?”

“A little on the deep side, but you speak so softly and huskily, it’s dead sexy. As I told you, I thought you were a girl on the phone. Have you had voice coaching?”

“No.”

“Then you’re a natural. How long have you known what you were, deep down?”

“All my life. I suppose, it became clear when I was about seven or eight and a certainty by the time I was ten or eleven.”

“Then you’ve had years of practice at watching at waiting?”

“I suppose so.”

“Did you dress in your sister’s clothes?”

“I haven’t got one, or a brother. I’m an only child.”

“Oh, and don’t tell me, Dad thought the sun shines out of your arse?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, you make a lovely girl.”

“Oh, thanks.”

The bus arrived and she let me get on first. It was a red double decker Routemaster, with the open platform at the rear and the stairs up to the top deck.

“Room upstairs only, darling!” said the Afro-Caribbean conductor, in a Jamaican accent.

I clambered up the steps, closely followed by Suzannah. I found a pair of seats and sat by the window. The bus was crowded, several Japanese tourists were taking photographs of everything in sight, us included. Suzannah slipped in beside me.

“Nervous?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Just stay with me kiddo, you’ll do fine.”

We stepped off the bus at Oxford Circus, suddenly I felt vulnerable and very much on display. Yet, as we walked down the busy street, I noticed that I received the occasional second glance, but nobody screamed out that I was a freak.

It took me about twenty minutes to relax, as Suzannah took me into shop after shop. First, she forced me buy a shoulder bag, then she made me buy loads of artefacts with which to fill it. Much to my terror, she dragged me to the cosmetic counter in a department store, where she stood over me as the sales girl gave me a complete makeover.

“You’ve got a really clear complexion, so with your colouring, we’ll get away with the minimum of foundation,” the girl told me. It took her twenty minutes, after which I had a new face, well, new makeup anyway.

Certainly, if Suzannah was going to be a semi-permanent feature of my life, I was going to be seriously impoverished in a very short time. By the rate she had me spending on everything from cosmetics to complete outfits; I was going to be seriously in debt in no time.

In one clothes shop, she had me stripped down to my underwear, trying on tight jeans and several dresses that revealed more than they covered.

At one point, she leaned close and whispered in my ear.

“What the hell have you done with you know what?”

“Tucked away,” I whispered back.

“Hmm, those a very realistic boobs, you look good, girl!”

I just smiled, relaxing completely for the first time.

By seven pm, I was shopped out. My feet hurt, my legs hurt, by back hurt and my new purse was empty. My fingers were experiencing near tourniquet syndrome through too many carrier bags attempting to cut off my circulation.

Believing we could now go home, I was dismayed when my tormentor took me into a small Italian Bistro, where she was greeted with avuncular enthusiasm by the large moustachioed proprietor.

“Tony is an absolute dream, I had to play an Italian girl in a movie once, so I came here and worked for him for a month just before we started shooting,” she explained.

“Tony, this is my good friend, Jane. She’s new to London, so be nice to her, there’s a love!”

“Signorina, a pleasure,” he said, taking my hand and kissing it in Latin fashion.

“E un piacere, signorina Jane.”

“Prego, signore, ma per favore ritorna la mia mano quando ha finito con lui.”

He stared at me, with a broad smile breaking across his face.

“You speak, Italian, signorina!”

“Sá¬, giusto abbastanza.”

“Just enough? No, you speak it very well. Come, I give you two lovely ladies the best table in the house.”

He led us to a delightful table in the bay window, through which we could watch the world go by. Tony brought a bottle of Chianti and two glasses, with a small basket of Ciabatta.

He opened the bottle with a practised hand, pouring a taster into Suzannah’s glass.

“So, lovely ladies, you hungry tonight?” he said, as he poured me a glassful of wine.

“What do you suggest?” Suzannah asked.

“The veal is excellent, tonight.”

I shook my head. “No, sorry, but I’m not a veal person, it’s the idea of those poor calves kept in confinement all their lives.”

“The carbonara is very good.”

“Two dishes of your carbonara, then Tony, thanks.”

Suzannah waited until he had left, before speaking.

“Well, well, aren’t you a fine one?”

Why?” I asked, frowning.

“A social conscience for our poor four legged friends.”

“I come from a rural area of the country, I don’t mind eating meat, but as long as I know they’ve at least run about a bit.”

“Tell me a little about yourself, I find you so fascinating.”

“Why?”

“I have never met a man who was so much a woman. Believe me, I’ve met quite a few who have tried very hard. You don’t even seem to try.”

I looked around the restaurant. It was quite busy and, as I looked, I noticed at least two men who were critically appraising me. They looked away when I met and held their gazes. Suzannah noticed and laughed.

“See?”

“I think I don’t need to try because I’ve had to try hard at being a man. The effort to maintain masculinity all the time when I was screaming to be a girl was so tiring. To be free, at last, it’s almost too much!”

“In what way?”

“Well, it’s like the male bit was so familiar, it was the devil I knew. This is all so strange, wonderful, but strange. I still expect people to point at me and laugh.”

“So, tell me, what sort of boy were you like?”

“Guess.”

“Hmm, I haven’t seen you as a male, so it’s tough. You walk and move like a woman, okay, you’re a little clumsy, but still feminine. But something tells me you were never a sissy.”

“I was a Captain in the Parachute Regiment, is that sissy enough for you?”

“No?” she said, shock and surprise on her face.

I then told her my life history. In return, she shared her broken marriage, her brief but passionate lesbian affair and her aspirations in show business.

“Have you ever had sex with a man?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Too chicken, that and never got the opportunity.”

“Which way will you swing?”

“I haven’t a clue, but I seem to be leaning towards men. I look at girls, but just to check out their clothes, makeup, hairstyles and such. I look at men and dream. Come to think of it, I’ve done that for most of my life.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“No, but I can’t say I’d ever get into the Guinness Book of Records. They were brief and statutory encounters so I could get the badge, so to speak. I was a soldier and it was expected. I don’t want to dwell on it, okay?”

“Okay. But I have to admit, I’m wondering what you’ll be like in bed.”

“Disinterested, I’m afraid. Partially due to the hormones I’m taking, and partially because I just don’t want to get into any complicated relationship with man or woman before I’m really me. No offence.”

“None taken, sweetie. But I still think it would be very interesting.”

“So, what made you swing the other way?”

“My ex; he was a real sod. We were both in a play, nothing special, down at Bath. I suppose we’d been married for almost four years, and to be honest, the first three were fine. I didn’t realise it, but he had a drink problem, that and a woman problem. He liked them young.”

“Come on, you’re not that old!” I said.

“No, I’m twenty-six now. He was four years older than me, anyway, I was only nineteen when we got married, everything my mother warned me about came true, bugger it! So, when I was a grey haired twenty-two, he went off with a slim seventeen year-old. There was a voluptuous woman in the cast who helped me through his desertion straight into her bed. I was flattered and so pissed off with men I actually enjoyed it. But I like men too much to actually stay that side of the fence.”

I smiled. Suzannah had a sort of naíve bravado, as if she’d try absolutely anything, just to see what it’s like. I envied her attitude and apparent freedom. She told me of her upbringing.

She’d been the younger daughter of a Norfolk vicar. Amanda, her elder sister, was one of those girls who sail through life being so wonderful at everything that anyone who has to follow is constantly reminded of how much better she was. Amanda married the elder son of a local wealthy farmer, so by last Christmas had managed to produce four children.

“Mandy is one of those annoying people who had no pains during her periods and her longest labour was just five and a half hours,” Suzannah told me.

“Do you see much of her?”

“Not so much, these days. When I started living with Georgie, my lesbian friend, the whole family treated me like a leper. I’ve been out of that relationship for nine months now, but I rarely hear from them these days.”

A dark and very attractive waiter arrived with a sexy smile and our food. I found I was ravenous, so set to with some enthusiasm. Suzannah watched me with an amused expression on her face.

“Okay, Janey darling, rule one, a girl never wolfs her food down like that. Try to forget you went to public school and were in the army, and just slow down a little. With me, it’s not a problem, but if you want to impress, splattering cheese sauce all over your clothes and face is not a good move!”

Grinning, I slowed down. It was a lovely meal, with a fine wine and good conversation, I found myself completely relaxed. We chatted a lot, covering just about every subject imaginable. She was highly intrigued to hear of my military exploits, and I was interested in her acting career.

“No so much a career as a couple of lucky parts and long spells of doing bugger all. I have to tell you, there is absolutely nothing like the applause of an appreciative audience.”

“I remember. I was the leading girl in several plays at school, and to be honest, they were the best moments of my life.”

The gorgeous waiter reappeared having delivered our desserts a few moments earlier.

“Excusi signorinas, but the two gentlemen at that table were wondering if you’d like to join them for a liqueur.”

We both looked. It was the pair I’d noticed earlier. Both were in suits, both appeared to be clean cut and in their early thirties. The slightly plumper one had a wedding ring on his left hand.

I looked at Suzannah, who shrugged.

“Your call, sweetie, they look harmless enough.”

“I don’t know, what if they find out?”

“Unless you take one to bed or go to the gents with them, believe me - they won’t.”

Feeling incredibly brave, I turned to the waiter, saying, “If the gentlemen would like to buy us a liqueur, then that’s very kind of them, but as for joining them, this is a far nicer table, they may join us, if they so desire.”

The waiter grinned and hurried off. A few moments later the two men were at our table, introducing themselves.

“Hi ladies, I’m Matt Ferris and this is Graham Lambert, this is mighty brave of you, considering we’re strangers and all,” the slim one said, as they sat in the vacant seats. We shook their hands.

They were American, with that conspicuous drawl from the south.

“Hi, I’m Suzannah and my friend is Jane. Please, join us.”

The waiter appeared with the wine and liqueur list. I chose a Drambuie, while Suzannah selected a Cointreau.

“In town on business or pleasure?” I asked

Matt smiled, replying, “Kinda both. See, we’re dentists here for a dental convention conference, but we’re taking a couple of weeks or so afterwards when our wives are joining us to see the sights and take a trip over to Europe.”

I smiled, as I had known that Americans thought that they could ‘do Europe’ in a week.

“You’re both married, then?” asked Suzannah, pointedly.

The two men glanced at each other, exchanging small smiles.

“Yup, ‘fraid so.”

“At least you’re honest,” said Suzannah, smiling.

They were from Atlanta, Georgia, and turned out to be good company. They’d only flown in yesterday, booked in to their hotel, the Grosvenor, and spent all day today in seminars.

Matt began to show too close an interest in me, so I became a little reserved. However, he was a complete gentleman, never giving me a bad moment. It was so odd interacting with people as Jane. Once I got over my terror at being discovered and relaxed, I found it perfectly natural. In fact, I liked the way Matt looked at me and made me feel. They were both nice guys, obviously far from home and feeling slightly lost.

“So, do you both work?” Graham asked.

“I’m an actress and Jane manages an antique shop.”

“Movies or theatre?”

“I’ll take whatever anyone offers,” Sue said with a chuckle.

She and Graham talked show business for a while, so Matt turned to me.

“Where’s the shop?”

“Knightsbridge, not far from Harrods,” I replied, believing everyone knew of Harrods.

“Harrods?”

“It’s the plushest and most exclusive department store in London.”

“Oh yeah, I guess I’ve heard of it. So, she said you manage it, I take it you don’t own it as well?”

Smiling, I shook my head. “No such luck.”

“What sort of things do you sell?”

“Some furniture, soft furnishings, curtains and carpets, mostly. The owner and his partner run three shops, one for expensive furniture, like tables, cabinets, sideboards and the like, plus jewellery and some silverware. The other shop is for objects d’art, paintings, ceramics, porcelain and similar. We’ve an interior designer who works with us, whose husband restores old furniture.”

“Seems quite an operation. So, are you from London?”

“No, I’m originally from Scotland, but have been down here for some time.”

“You don’t sound Scottish.”

“Is that an advantage or not?” I asked.

“Hell, the last Scottish guy I met was from Glasgow, he could have been speaking Chinese for all I understood.”

I laughed and finished my drink.

“So, if it’s not to forward of me, is there a man in your life?”

I glanced at Sue, but she was in mid-story.

“Not at the moment. I’ve sort of just finished with a soldier.”

“Just finished?”

“He’s been part of my life for a long time. He isn’t any more.”

Suzannah turned as I said it and smiled at me.

“Jane is starting a new life, so treat her gently,” she said, making me blush.

“My wife gets in on Tuesday, perhaps we could meet up. I’d like to show her London, but would rather someone who knows their way round could do it.”

“Perhaps,” I said, noncommittally.

We finished our meal and I looked at my watch. I was surprised to find it was eleven o’clock.

“Gracious, I hadn’t realised the time, we’d better get back,” I said

“Do you mind if we call a cab, buses are notoriously haphazard at this time of night, and the tube is for people far braver than I?” Sue asked me.

“No.”

Tony called a cab for us and kissed both our hands as we left. It had been a wonderful meal, so I told him.

“You must come again, my friend Jane. And next time bring your boyfriend,” he said with a smile.

When the cab arrived, the men decided to leave also. They said goodnight to us inside the restaurant, and I found myself giving Matt my shop telephone number.

“Thanks for being so friendly, Jane. We’d heard that English girls were ice cold. You’ve both been great.”

“I’m Scottish, but thanks anyway,” I said.

He kissed my cheek.

I blushed and left, feeling wonderful.

The cab took only a few minutes to reach my flat. I got out, giving Suzannah a twenty-pound note.

“That’s for my half, unless you want to come in?”

She smiled, “Don’t tempt me, darling. But no, not this time, perhaps another day. Look, are you free this weekend?”

“I’m free every weekend,” I replied.

“Then we’ll do something. I’ll pick you up at ten. You don’t really need my help, but it’ll be fun. Night, night, sweetheart,” she said, kissing me on the cheek.

I watched the cab drive away, then turned and went into my dark little flat with my shopping bags. I made a decision and, taking all my masculine attire, placed them all in a couple of black bags and dumped them under the spare bed.

I undressed, taking a shower. I was now so anxious to rid myself of a few certain pieces of anatomy; the surgery couldn’t come soon enough. Making sure I took my makeup off properly, I applied moisturiser and hung my new clothes in the near-empty wardrobe.

Dressing in a slinky nightdress and slipping under my duvet, I contemplated my immediate future. I had been told to get into this gradually. Start with an hour a day and work up.

An hour a day as Jane?

Stuff that!

Jane was now here to stay, as James had gone!

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To Be Continued...